


the eyes don't see (but the heart does)

by starstrucknic



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist AU, Canon warning apply, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Prosopagnosia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29993484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrucknic/pseuds/starstrucknic
Summary: It’s the blood splatter, really, that draws Andrew’s eye first. Would it really arc up like that, as if from a garden hose blocked by a careless thumb? Would it drench the sheets red or flow in neat streams down the front of the mattress?It seems almost impossible how easily convenient death is. How Judith’s sword slices through Holofernes’ neck, his face an expression Andrew wouldn’t recognize even if he cared to. It’s just shadow, hair, and a wrinkled forehead, surprisingly free of blood. Being upside down neither helps or hinders his impression.Judith, of course, looms overhead, one hand braced on Holofernes head, the other clenched around the sword caught in the act of murder. This expression, too, is indiscernible, yet Andrew has the strange instinct to rub his thumb over her face, as if that will clear it up. A windshield wiper arcing endlessly over oil stains.Or, the one where Andrew, an art undergrad who unknowingly has prosopagnosia, contracts Neil, a math undergrad with an attitude problem, as a model for his portrait requirement in order to graduate.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 9
Kudos: 99
Collections: AFTG Reverse Big Bang 2021





	the eyes don't see (but the heart does)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devillikeme_9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devillikeme_9/gifts).



> My entry for the AFTG reverse Big Bang 2021!!!! 
> 
> Thanks so much to my artist, the lovely sm-pcnlr, for the story prompt and the beautiful artwork as well!!! I really enjoying working on this prompt and ended up learning a lot about painting and prosopagnosia!! I really appreciate the opportunity to challenge myself and had a great time collaborating as well!! 
> 
> Thank you to Tammy for the constant emotional support and for beta-ing!! I literally would be lost without you!!
> 
> The art referenced in the fic is linked in the titles.
> 
> Check out sm-pcnlr Tumblr post of art: [here](https://sm-pcnlr.tumblr.com/post/645426152774762497/guess-who-participated-in-the-aftgreverse-this). 
> 
> See end notes for warnings!

It’s the blood splatter, really, that draws Andrew’s eye first. Would it really arc up like that, as if from a garden hose blocked by a careless thumb? Would it drench the sheets red or flow in neat streams down the front of the mattress?

It seems almost impossible how easily convenient death is. How Judith’s sword slices through Holofernes’ neck, his face an expression Andrew wouldn’t recognize even if he cared to. It’s just shadow, hair, and a wrinkled forehead, surprisingly free of blood. Being upside down neither helps or hinders his impression.

Judith, of course, looms overhead, one hand braced on Holofernes head, the other clenched around the sword caught in the act of murder. This expression, too, is indiscernible, yet Andrew has the strange instinct to rub his thumb over her face, as if that will clear it up. A windshield wiper arcing endlessly over oil stains. 

Andrew fucking hates portraits. But this one, Gentileschi’s, Andrew studies for a moment longer. 

It helps that the painting is appropriately titled [ _Judith Beheading Holofernes_ ](https://smarthistory.org/gentileschi-judith-slaying-holofernes/). It is both straight to the point and a convenient way to label at least two of the figures. Holofernes is being beheaded; Judith is the one with the sword. 

There’s a soft knock at his door, then. Jarring enough that Andrew looks away, just a flicker of inattention, and yet the impression is lost. Andrew closes his eyes.

He doesn’t bother getting up or saying anything. There are a finite few who would dare seek him out in his dorm and they shouldn’t expect anything civil from Andrew at this point.

“Andrew? It’s Renee.” Renee’s soft almost melodic voice would give her away, even through the creak of the door opening and closing behind her. Andrew tilts his head back, rubbing his temples. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Now, Andrew turns to Renee and allows his full attention. Her hair is colored dark purple today; a dramatic change from the soft pink it was only a few days ago, one Andrew had been used to, but will now need to relearn. She is purple with a litany of pierced earrings. Andrew tucks that aside. “But I believe I’ve found a suitable candidate.”

“Who?” Andrew doesn’t think there are any suitable candidates. It is no secret that Andrew cannot and does not paint portraits, but for some reason his good for nothing university requires at least one hyper realistic portrait be included in his gallery collection in order to graduate. Andrew, frankly, does not care about graduating or the portrait, but Renee does. She has been actually trying to recruit someone she thinks is the least likely to agitate Andrew. If Andrew had the capacity to feel gratitude, perhaps he would feel it here. Instead, he braces for impact.

“Neil,” Renee says with a smile, a soft uptick of her mouth. Unimposing even in her expressions. “I believe you will get along well, actually.”

Andrew sincerely doubts that. “Ok.”

“You’ve probably seen him around campus. He is Matt’s roommate.” Andrew has no fucking clue who Matt is, but he nods in the appropriate gaps in Renee’s conversation. “Though, he seems to be afraid of me.”

That does spark an interest, a flickering flame against a heavy wind. Renee’s performative act as a good Christian girl obscures her rather colored past of gang involvement. A past which is a very large part of the reason Andrew tolerates her. Most people are fooled by her facade. Not Andrew. And, apparently, not Neil. 

“He is right to be afraid,” Andrew says. Renee smiles in response. “I will think about it.”

“How is the rest of your collection going?” 

Oh Renee. Her concern is needless. “What answer are you looking for?”

Renee seems sad to hear that, though Andrew can’t understand why. “Nothing in particular. We just haven’t seen each other in a while. You haven’t stopped by the gym to spar.”

No, he hasn’t. Some days it feels like his skin is peeling off when he so much as makes eye contact with a stranger. It’s illogical. He’s supposed to be getting better.

“Have you spoken with Bee?” She asks it innocently enough, the way one might ask if you’ve had a good weekend or if you’re doing well today. Most people wouldn’t think twice of the question or the answer. But Renee has always been more perceptive than she likes to let on, keenly attuned to the shifting moods of the crowd. She had to be to survive, once upon a time. But she found her fairy tale ending; Andrew is still adrift at sea, a shipwreck waiting to happen.

“Renee.” Andrew does not have the energy for this. 

Then serene Renee is back, as if she had never left. “We should get lunch on Tuesday. It’s your turn to pay.”

Andrew sighs. Renee is relentless when she aims to be. Tuesday lunch, he can make it for that, can’t he?

He’s supposed to be-

“Fine.”

“Great,” Renee says. And then, as if as an afterthought, adds, “Bee would answer if you called, you know.”

Andrew just stares back at Renee.

“Tuesday, then.” Renee doesn’t sigh, her patience knows no bounds, but it seems to be a near thing. “Oh, and Nicky has been trying to reach you. Is your phone charged?”

Andrew pulls his phone from his pocket and oh, it’s dead. Under Renee’s watchful eyes, he plugs it into the charger. 

Renee smiles.

**

[ _Paris, Montparnasse from 1993_ ](https://www.andreasgursky.com/en/works/1993/paris-montparnasse) stares back at Andrew, entirely unimpressed by his indifference. Andreas Gursky, his professor says, voice full of awe, compiled housing units into one large panoramic image, utilizing digital editing unique to the time. Andrew understands the novel of innovation, but technological advancements have dimmed the perceived appeal. Although, Andrew will admit there is something to staring at an image of housing units, catching glimpses of the lives within, and taking it for what it is. There is no hidden symbolism or darkened intention. Housing units exist to house people. That’s all there is to it. 

The stranger the row in front of him seems to agree that it is not very impressive, if his heaving sighs are anything to go off of. That and that he has been working on what looks like math equations throughout the entire duration of the lecture. He turns his head, adjusting for a better angle and Andrew sees distinctive burn marks on his cheek. 

Strange. But then the professor goes on about _Rhine II,_ a fucking picture of a river, and Andrew fully tunes out. One more year of this bullshit and then Andrew can go back to doing what he does best. Being a drain on society.

The bell rings the end to the class, time having moved more quickly than Andrew had even realized. But he packs up his belongings and follows the wave of students out numbly, just a step behind, just out of range. 

He’s out to cross the greens to go back to the studio when he accidentally makes eye contact with a stranger. The stranger, a rather tall man with curled hair, smiles and waves overly enthusiastically in response. Andrew has...no idea who this is. And, anyway, Andrew does not inspire this kind of reaction, so he ignores the stranger, shifting his gaze down and away. It must be someone behind Andrew.

The stranger doesn’t stop Andrew as he passes by, so he’s sure that it wasn’t meant for him. 

Instead, he prepares for his first session with the model Renee had picked out. He is due to be in the studio right after Andrew’s class got out. Tempting as it is to skip to smoke a cigarette on the roof, Andrew refrains. He’ll meet the model and paint a sketch. Then he can tell Renee it didn’t work out, and maybe she’ll give up.

They all give up on him one way or another. Renee will be no different.

Once he reaches the studio, Andrew is surprised to find a stranger standing outside of the studio door, almost silently scuffing his worn out tennis shoes against the wooden floorboards. He notices Andrew’s presence immediately.

Out of instinct, Andrew ignores him entirely and unlocks the door. He’s almost fully to his station before the stranger decides to break the silence. 

“Andrew.” The stranger with burns and scars on his cheeks says, almost thoughtful. “I’m Neil. Your portrait model?”

“Neil.” Andrew studies his face. It’s distinctive, interesting, and, objectively speaking, attractive. What artist wouldn’t clamor at the opportunity to paint his portrait, try to nail the distinctive markings? Then his attention shifts as he thinks about how to paint the slope of his nose, a wandering thought there and gone, and then, the impression evaporates like water on a stovetop. 

Why wouldn’t it?

Andrew looks away and instead waves a hand in the direction of the stool Neil is to sit at. He placed the two stools, the artist and the art, almost uncomfortably close. But maybe, that way, Andrew will be able to just _focus_. 

_You have potential, Andrew! You just need to focus your mind! Calm your idle thoughts. Then your portraits wouldn’t be so shit._

Andrew blinks against the memory. It is useless to ruminate on the past. There’s nothing to take back and Andrew wouldn’t want to anyway.

Andrew pulls out his brushes and paints methodically, almost as part of a ritual. If he pulls out his brushes in just the right order, angles the paints to the correct degree, then he will be able to paint this portrait on the first try. Or, even the fiftieth. 

Andrew doesn’t believe in superstitions, and yet. 

Neil quietly watches for a while and then, “Do I need to do anything?”

“No.” Andrew doesn’t look up as he adds some brown to mix with the red. But, after some thought adds, “Sit still.”

Neil snorts at that. “Ok.”

It’s fine, at first. Andrew busies himself with preparing his canvas, almost entirely forgetting that Neil is even in the room. But then, this is the easy part, the mindless preparation where his thoughts are allowed to wander without recourse. A sailboat following the pull of the winds, no predetermined destination. 

“How much are you going to paint?” Neil interrupts the calm of open skies like a swelling storm cloud. 

Andrew levels him a flat look.

“Of me. I mean will my clothes be in this or?” Neil trails off, tugging his sweatshirt sleeves down over his hands. Nervous. But about what?

“No.” 

Neil’s sharp intake of breath cuts through the silence. “I’m not taking my shirt off. I thought I made that clear to Renee when I accepted this job. If that’s what you’re looking for in a model then-”

He sounds angry, but looks as though he is about to jump out the window in his haste to get away. What is he so afraid of?

“Neil.” Andrew interrupts. Neil snaps his mouth shut, jaw clenched. His fist is, too. Will he try to fight Andrew, then? “You will not have to take anything off.”

“Oh,” Neil says, subdued. “Right. Ok.”

“Sit still,” Andrew says in response. Without anything else to distract, Andrew finally is forced to look up and study Neil’s face. He has a burn mark on his left cheek, thin slices in his right cheek near his mouth, as if someone tried to split his face open and see what’s inside. His eyes are blue, alarmingly so, and his hair is auburn, messy without any styling. He is, Andrew begrudgingly thinks, attractive. He stomps the thought right back down where it came from. 

He stares at Neil, perhaps futilely trying to commit his face to memory, and maybe, maybe, this time it will stick. He can’t stare forever, though, and looks away, at the canvas. 

Normally, Andrew would sketch out the image in pencil first. But, he doesn’t bother to waste the time now.

Instead, he slaps a paintbrush to the canvas and just loses himself in the painting. It’s easy to get lost in the colors, the sounds of the brushstrokes. Sometimes, he abandons the brush and sticks his fingers in the paint, as if he can force the image to appear through sheer force of will. He is in control of the narrative, here, and sometimes his paintings cooperate with his will.

This time, not so much. Andrew paints and corrects and paints some more but he has no idea if the likeness matches. Neil has...what color hair? Andrew has no memory of it, but he can’t look away. There’s something on Neil’s face, probably, but Andrew has no idea what. A birthmark? Bruises? Scratches? Andrew makes something up. 

Andrew paints as if painting is all he knows and it’s still not enough. It never is.

Finally, Andrew stops, steps away, and faces the window. It’s dark, now, time having moved quicker than even Andrew had noticed. The dining hall has closed by now, surely. He missed another meal.

“Neil,” Andrew says without looking. “Take a look.”

“Oh,” Neil says, voice cracking. He sounds off. Maybe he had fallen asleep. “Ok.”

Andrew hears the stool scrap and Neil’s gentle footfalls. And then, an intake of breath. 

“Oh,” Neil says, again. Like it’s the only word he knows. “I like your use of color.”

“Neil.” Andrew doesn’t want to hear idle bullshit. He does not need an ego stroke, he needs objectivity. A stranger shouldn’t feel the need to curb his impression. “Does it look like you?”

Neil hums in consideration. “Well, not really. Actually not at all. That’s kind of impressive, in a way. I don’t hate it, though.”

Andrew closes his eyes and tips his head up. “Leave. I’ll venmo you.”

“Sure.” Neil apparently has the tact not to press the issue further. “Why didn’t you look at me when you were drawing, though? Isn’t that what I’m here for?”

Ok, apparently Neil does not in fact have the tact to keep his mouth shut. Andrew opens his eyes and turns to squint at Neil. Neil is still standing by the portrait, but he is facing Andrew, silently watching for his reaction. Piece of shit. “You are here to be seen, not heard. Out.”

That startles a grin, withering but there all the same, out of Neil. “Ok. I’m guessing you’ll need me next week, right?”

Andrew waves a hand instead of responding. It seems Neil likes to get the last word in.

“Bye Andrew.” And just like that, Neil is gone. Andrew is alone again.

Fuck. 

Maybe, it’s a waste of a salvageable canvas, but Andrew has no idea how far off he is in the impression. He’s not sure he wants to know.

His control, usually so precise, snaps and he punches the canvas hard enough to split it, right in Neil’s stupid fucking face. Well, in the alternate reality version of Neil’s face that Andrew completely made up. 

There’s paint all over his fist and his sleeve that probably won’t come off no matter how many times he washes it. But what’s the point? 

_Fuck._

***

At first glance, [Liu Wei’s ](https://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2018/contemporary-art-evening-sale-hk0783/lot.1088.html) [ _Purple Air_ ](https://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2018/contemporary-art-evening-sale-hk0783/lot.1088.html) seems like an explosion of colors and lines randomly thrown onto a canvas. Chaotic abstraction that only try-hards would read too much into and assign arbitrary meaning to. However, _Purple Air_ instead is a methodical reinterpretation of Beijing cityscape, breaking down the dense urban landscape to its minimalist form. The art, according to the artist, symbolizes an ancient Chinese saying of ‘purple air’ which highlights the duality of underlying societal issues and strength in individual spirit.

But, of course, Andrew isn’t interested in the promise of hope and recovery, instead he is drawn to the breakdown of the physical space. It’s like he’s peeling back the layers of a brain like his; one that scrambles up a portrait and spits something twisted back out. Can it be molded back into something approaching the original image? Or, at the very least, can people be tricked into believing that it is the original image? 

Perhaps he’ll try a more structured breakdown. Paint random lines in some semblance of a portrait and claim this is his modern interpretation of a portrait. It just might work, if he can-

“How is your final year going, Andrew?”

Andrew’s line of thought promptly derails and hits a tree. Currently, he is-

Right, he is in Bee’s office. She is sitting across from him, graying hair and lilac rimmed glasses. Right, he had agreed to meet Bee again on Monday. Today is Monday. 

“Fine.” Andrew shakes his head, subtly, but just enough to be noticeable. As if it will shake him back to the present time. 

“Do you have a senior project? Renee has told me she is very busy preparing for her final gallery; though, I confess I do not know if this is a standard practice or for a select few students.”

“Yes.” One that Andrew has made no progress on and one that he does not particularly feel like speaking about.

“How are you feeling about it, so far?” Bee says it neutrally, as if Andrew’s answer one way or another would be accepted. It is part of what Andrew tolerates about her. She doesn’t cast judgement or force more interaction than Andrew is willing to give. 

“Ok.” But Andrew doesn’t want to talk about it. He is chained to this chair, his body splayed open; an autopsy for a crowd. He wants to staple his skin shut and run out of the room, and yet, he can’t move. 

“Why don’t we do a grounding exercise, ok? You don’t have to speak anymore, Andrew. Just nod if it’s ok.”

Andrew nods.

Bee speaks. She talks him through some mind-body exercises, the kind that is supposed to help reaffirm your body and separate the mind. 

Sometimes, Andrew’s nerves feel like livewires; one touch and he’ll be electrocuted to death. 

But it is Monday. 

His name is Andrew Minyard. He is in Bee’s office. For therapy. This is a safe space and he can leave whenever he wants.

Bee’s voice drones on in the background at first, flowing like water through Andrew’s fingers.

Today is Monday. His name is Andrew Minyard. He is alive and present, here, in this chair. He feels the heat from the radiator, the sweat it forms on his back sticking to the chair. He feels his clothes against his skin, a well worn sweatshirt, oversized sleeves. 

Then Andrew can catch Bee’s words, listen to what she is saying.

His name is Andrew Minyard. He is alive. He has survived. He is healing, but not healed. Healing takes time. It is Monday. Twelve fifty-five. 

“...and another deep breath, exhale on two. Good. Andrew, are you with me?” Bee is saying, her voice even and smooth.

“Yes.” The word is heavy in Andrew’s mouth, but he can make the shape of it, taste it. It’s clumsy, but it’s something. 

One step at a time.

“Good. Thank you, Andrew. Would you like to go through another exercise?” Bee’s patience runs deep, like looking out and trying to see to the bottom of the ocean. Surely, it’s there, but Andrew has never seen it. 

“No,” Andrew murmurs. All he wants to do is go back to his dorm and sleep. The world is too loud.

“Alright. I’ll pencil you in for the same time next week, then.” Betsy agrees easily, but seems to not want Andrew to go long without seeing her. Andrew doesn’t have any fight left in him to care. “You can always call me, or text me, whenever you want, Andrew. At any time, ok?”

Andrew nods already halfway up and out of the chair. He’s gliding back across the greens, makes eye contact with some guy with burns and scars on his face. There’s a pique of interest, but it dies as quickly as it comes, almost too fast for Andrew to categorize. He has the single minded goal of making it back to his dorm without any human interaction. 

Somehow, somehow he does. 

It’s quiet, here. Underneath his blankets. His bag thrown carelessly by the door, his door locked shut. No one will come in. No one will bother him. 

No one will touch him. 

Not again.

Andrew closes his eyes.

**

Fall colors the skys, orange and red soaked leaves; the cold breeze shaking them loose. It reminds Andrew of [ _Chemin De La Machine Louveciennes_ ](https://www.alfredsisley.org/Chemin-De-La-Machine-Louveciennes.html) [by Alfred Sisley](https://www.alfredsisley.org/Chemin-De-La-Machine-Louveciennes.html), of the dirt path lined by trees beneath an autumn sky. Andrew imagines walking down that path, no clear direction in sight, but just living in the moment, in the feeling, of trudging through dirt bathed in an orange glow. 

Sisley preferred to paint scenery of places he’d been, rather than portraits, in an impressionist style. The brush strokes capture the essence of the subject, yet don’t strive for a hyper realistic depiction. Sisley, too, tricks the viewer into seeing the shape of the image like a memory or through glasses with the wrong prescription. Andrew can appreciate that, at least, though he may not enjoy the sometimes romanticized view.

It is on such a path, empty barring a few straggling students, that Andrew walks on his way to the gym. He’ll try, today, to lift weights. Even if he just makes it there, it would be progress.

The sun kisses the ground unperturbed by Andrew’s plight, but he is making progress. Steadily, slowly, neatly avoiding any human contact. His avoidance of crowds has only gotten worse, but he can’t be bothered to address it.

The doors to the gym are right there; he just needs to reach out and touch it. He can see through the glass a six foot tall man with spiked hair lifting weights and a woman with purple colored hair wrapping her wrists by the door. She looks up and makes eye contact with him. She inhales, a smile peeking out; Andrew exhales, turning away from the door.

Not today.

He’s halfway through the greens, halfway to slinking into his dorm room, when he makes eye contact, again. This time it’s with a man blocking the path in front of him. His face is scarred, burn marks and cuts, as if from a knife, marring his otherwise handsome features. 

Andrew breaks eye contact and neatly steps around the fallen man. 

“Andrew.”

Andrew winces at the voice, but ignores it. He is so close to his goal and has no desire to hold a conversation with someone he doesn’t know. He rarely even engages with those he does know. Unfortunately, it is to no avail. 

“Andrew, wait!” 

Andrew stops on instinct, his body locking up, a spike of something not quite fear but not quite panic. Adrenaline, perhaps? The instinct of fight or flight? He stomps it down, as if that will kill his natural instincts. He turns on his heel, aggravation bubbling in his throat. 

A man with a burn mark and cuts on his face is staring at him from the ground. He is handsome, but-

“You’re Andrew, right?” The man says, after a moment of silence. He winces and stands, but doesn’t move closer. “It’s Neil. Your, ah, portrait model?”

-irritating.

Oh. “Neil,” Andrew says.

“Er, yeah.” Neil winces. “Right. Listen, if I offended you last time…well, that wasn’t my intention.”

Neil stumbles over his words, an apology by the sounds of it. Albeit, a shit one. Neil doesn’t even say that he is sorry, so Andrew doubts that he is. He sounds more as if someone had coerced him to say something.

“You didn’t.”

“Oh.” Neil blinks. “Ok. Great. Um, well, if you need my venmo details then-”

Ah. Andrew hasn’t paid Neil yet, no wonder he is being cautiously polite. Andrew pulls out his phone. “Venmo?”

“What? Oh my venmo. I added you already,” Neil says it bluntly, but without any anger. It affects an air of nonchalance that Andrew is certain Neil doesn’t have. 

Andrew hums as he scrolls through his phone. Sure enough, Neil’s contact information is there. Andrew puts in the payment information.

It wasn’t that Andrew forgot; he can store and recall information with almost perfect retention. However, it is the same as when he doesn’t eat. He knows he has to do it, knows his body needs it, but he just doesn’t, almost like he physically can’t. It looks like forgetfulness from the outside and yet mimics a paralysis instead; all consuming, inevitable like an anchor sinking to the bottom of the sea.

He’s supposed to be getting better. 

“Done,” Andrew says. Another box checked off, one hastily written on a scrap piece of paper that Andrew wants to crumple up and throw away. He almost does, too, but then. 

“Thanks.” Neil scrolls through his phone as he says it, as if he doesn’t believe Andrew had paid him. After a moment, he tucks his phone away. “Do you still have that painting of me?”

Andrew blinks. “Why?”

“If you do, I’d like to keep it.” Andrew really cannot understand Neil’s actions. Why would someone want to keep a failed portrait?

“It’s gone.” Andrew would have burned it, but thought better of burning the paint. 

“Why?” Neil tilts his head, his hair falling more into his eyes. How can he fucking see?

“Why do you care?” Andrew retorts.

“Fair enough.” Neil sounds amused, but doesn’t show it outwardly in his expression. “Well, I’ll see you around, I guess. Let me know if you need another session.”

And he turns to leave, just like that. Andrew should let him go, the temptation to crawl into bed almost a burning need, yet. Andrew wants to paint Neil, capture his expression as it is right now onto a canvas. He’s never felt this way about another person before. 

“Neil,” Andrew says. Neil stops and faces him, eyebrows raised. “Do you have time now?”

“Now?” Neil checks his phone, presumably to look at the time. “For the portrait? Sure. But not too much time. Maybe an hour or so.”

Andrew nods and jerks his head. Neil follows Andrew to the studio, silent, even as Andrew unlocks the room. The studio, fortunately, is deserted again; Andrew waves a hand to the empty stool in front of his station, the one Neil sat in before. He hadn’t moved it, couldn’t bear to even look at it after the last session. He hasn’t even been back to the studio or touched his paints since Neil sat there as Andrew failed miserably. There is no reason to think this time will be any different, but. He’ll try. 

Neil seems to understand Andrew’s intention. He drops his backpack under the table and obediently sits on the stool.

Neil watches Andrew collect his paints and a new canvas for a moment, and then, “Who’s your favorite painter?”

What a stupid question. “Would you even recognize any painter I said?”

“Probably,” Neil replies, like it’s nothing. From what Renee has said, Neil is a math major with no conspicuous interest in the arts. “Maybe. But, doesn’t your favorite painter say a lot about you? Or maybe it’s the painter you hate that does. Are you being objectively critical or jealous by superior ability?”

Andrew is in the middle of swatching paint colors, but he pauses to meet Neil’s eyes. Takes a moment to process what Neil has just said, and then, “Why would you care? We are not friends.”

Neil exhales sharply, a noise that might be mistaken for a laugh, but doesn’t quite hit the mark. “We aren’t. You don’t have to answer, but it might make this process go smoother if you don’t hate me.”

“Feelings,” Andrew says, pointing a paintbrush at Neil to emphasize the point. “Are irrelevant, here.”

Neil squints, tilts his head. As if the concept is foreign, an equation he doesn’t have the formula to answer. “How so?”

Andrew doesn’t reply to that. Instead he takes post in front of his canvas and examines Neil. His hair is auburn. He has a burn mark on his left cheek, near his eye, and cut marks on his right cheek down to the edge of his lips. His eyes burn blue. Andrew looks at Neil as if staring will somehow imprint the impression in his mind. Maybe, he’ll be able to copy it just right this time. Or maybe he can pass it off as an impressionist painting. It just needs to be close enough to be somewhat recognizable. 

Surely now, after examining Neil’s facial features for what seems like hours, but more likely is only a couple of minutes, Andrew will have retained Neil’s face. He can remember everything else in almost perfect detail, except this. But this time. Surely. 

He won’t know until he tries.

Andrew sighs and shifts his attention to the blank canvas. He’s ready to carve out the white, soak the canvas with Neil’s stupid face, but then.

He hesitates a moment, paint dripping back onto his palette. Neil’s impression is gone. Just like it always is.

Andrew throws the palette right at the canvas, knocking it over to the ground with a large clang. Neil flinches in his seat, mouth pinched and eyes swimming, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Andrew doesn’t, either. 

Instead, he collects his fallen canvas and palette. There is a little bit of paint smeared on the canvas, not enough to have destroyed it, but not exactly the ideal color matches. Andrew sets it on the easel again and forgoes the brushes. He rolls up his sleeves and dips his fingers in the paint. He swirls his index finger in the paint, and then his middle and thumb, and digs into the white, as if he can force the image to come out. 

Andrew isn’t really even thinking about anything as he does it, just lets his fingers dictate a mindless facial replication. What’s the point? He isn’t going to get it right, anyway. No matter how many brush strokes or techniques he tries. It’s all meaningless anyway.

He ends up with a piss poor attempt at an impressionist portrait. Again, he has no idea if the likeness matches Neil at all, but it’s better than nothing. 

After a while, when he feels he has enough of a recognizable face, Andrew places his palette down and moves to the sink. He’s got paint all over his sleeves regardless of his attempts at staying neat. His paints never come out of his clothes, but he is resigned to this fact by now. 

Neil doesn’t need any prompting this time and goes to peek at the painting of his own accord. Or so Andrew assumes, seeing as how he’s heard Neil shift out of the chair, but not out of the room. 

“Wow,” Neil murmurs, a quiet awe in his voice. Andrew cannot help but look and sees Neil’s hand half raised, as if to touch the painting, but it hovers before making contact. “Wow, Andrew.”

“Shut up,” slips out of Andrew’s mouth before he even really thinks to say it. “Does it look like you?”

“This is really incredible, Andrew.” Neil ignores the question, like a bastard, and continues to oogle his work. Andrew is half ready to storm over and tear up the painting into a thousand tiny pieces out of pure spite, but then. “Can I keep this?”

Andrew raises an eyebrow.

“Right,” Neil says, his arm falling back down to his side. “Er, no, it doesn’t really look like me. Well, it isn’t me at all. But you don’t recognize people, right? So is it really that surprising?”

Andrew dutifully ignores the pit forming in his stomach, like a rock burrowing a hole. Andrew doesn’t recognize people? 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” If there’s venom in the words, it is only half intentional.

“Well, I’ve seen you around campus before and after we were introduced, but you never recognized me. You saw Renee at the gym, but didn’t say anything. And your attempts at painting me are always amazing, but the images don’t look anything like me. The funny thing is that this attempt and your other attempt don’t even look similar either. It’s as if you were looking at two completely different people.”

This time, Andrew’s silence is stunned instead of intentional.

“I’ve heard people say you're cold and stand off-ish, but I don’t think so. You don’t remember what people look like, right?”

Andrew isn’t afraid of anything. He has a height aversion and doesn’t like to be in crowds, sure. But there is a cause and effect to these aversions, a logical reason behind his body’s reactions. 

But this? Having some no-nothing look and _see_ Andrew.

Andrew isn’t afraid of anything.

But he’ll be damned if he lets this bastard look at him, take him apart so calmly and composedly, as if it’s so easy to put a knife to Andrew’s wrists and slit them open, bleed him dry. Andrew’s seen the end of this road and he will be _damned_ if he walks it.

“Get,” Andrew says, calmly, fiercely, “the fuck out of here.”

Neil, albeit annoying, always seems to sense when he’s overstayed his welcome. He goes for his bag and is about to open the door to leave but hesitates, fingers tapping the doorknob. 

Neil doesn’t look at Andrew, but he inhales and says, “I didn’t mean to overstep. It isn’t my business.”

And like that, Neil is gone. 

Andrew doesn’t yell, doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. Always so composed. Always strung tight, like the last thread on a fraying wire. 

Fucking Neil.

Andrew bottles his emotions up, corkscrewing them into the depths of his mind, never to be seen or heard of again. Then, quietly, he deposits his failed painting into the trash.

He will not be painting anymore, tonight.

**

There is a couple walking down _[Filbert Street - San Francisco, CA](https://www.thomasschaller.com/workszoom/2549557/filbert-street-san-francisco#/), _with their dog almost in the background of the scenery; one dressed in blue, the other in red. Their faces are blacked out, obscured to the viewer; a thumbprint on an otherwise full canvas of color, as if as an afterthought. The buildings, too, have defined outlines, their shapes unique and distinct, yet the watercolor blurs the finite details. It almost replicates looking at a scene through a puddle’s reflection, detailed yet blurred; vibrant yet dulled. 

Architectural watercolor, the artist, Thomas Schaller, claims is his specialty. His portfolio, too, reflects the interest in architectural spaces rather than portraits. The angles and distinctive shapes of the buildings triumphing over the minute details of the colors or fine lines. It gives off the feeling of the building, the environment, rather than striving for a depiction of the hyperrealism of a photograph. 

Maybe Andrew should have enrolled in architecture instead, but he brushes the thought aside as useless. It is far too late to change. 

He’s trying, now, really trying, to paint Neil from memory. The shape of his jaw, the dip of his mouth, the curve of his eyes, from his fucked up brain and onto a piece of white fucking paper. But the details all meld together; they form into a portrait, sure, into some semblance of a person, but Andrew is making it all up. He doesn’t even know if the painting _feels_ like Neil, nevermine resembles him. Hyperrealism clearly isn’t going well. Andrew slashes a giant black smudge right where the face is supposed to be, crossing out his failures as if that will erase them from ever existing.

Impressionism, then, surely would be more palatable than hyperrealism; maybe he’d get away with some artistic liberties. But, no, that doesn’t feel quite right either. Another black slash, right across the nose this time, the black paint dripping down and ruining the curve of his mouth. Andrew sticks his fingers in the paint and he smears the mouth right off.

He doesn’t even bother to wipe the paint away afterwards, simply pulls the canvas down and throws it to the floor, little black fingerprints smudged along the edges. 

Watercolor. It’d be simple; get the outline down and do a basic impression of the features. Schaller can do it with some shitty buildings; he’d even gotten away with halfhearted portraits. He’d tried, truely; he’d sketched out a basic outline in pencil first, not even bothering to clean up the lines. Watercolor sometimes has a mind of its own, expanding and diluting along the canvas. Andrew tries his best to control the color, manipulating the image into an impression, but even this-

It’s all wrong. 

He had felt something when he looked at Neil, he’s sure that he did, but he doesn’t know what or how to translate that impression into a concrete image. Was there something striking about Neil’s facial features? Something about his expression? Or maybe it was in the way he quietly watched Andrew, unobtrusively sharing his space rather than asserting his dominance. Could Andrew capture the sparks so ready to fly from his mouth with every barbed comment, every subtle jab?

Andrew doesn’t even know if he even can trust his memory of Neil’s impression, if the imprint he left behind is Neil and not just a figment of his imagination.

He takes his brush, violently jabs it into the black paint and crosses out his latest attempt at a portrait. He’s pressing so hard that he rips the paper, tears it clean across Neil’s eyes. 

He wants to dig into his own eyes, pull them out one fucking nerve at a time, throw them into the paints to burn and shrivel up. He wants to break something, anything. To scream, or to shout, or to curse out every fucking person who’s ever had an opinion of him or his art. Instead, he swallows his anger, iron and acidic like blood, and he picks up his paint brush.

Time trips on its untied shoelaces and crumbles to a creeping crawl. Every aching second that passes feels doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled, and yet Andrew has made absolutely no progress. _This_ \- Bee’s voice echoes in his head, a shrill reminder of his own failings- _is when the bad thoughts try to take over, Andrew._

He knows. It’s not productive to think destructively. Sometimes you have to step away, gain a wider perspective, collect yourself.

But then there’s another voice, much deeper, much more insidious, hissing in his ear, cursing him out. _Aj_ , it says, toxic breath enough to decay, _aren’t you happy to see me?_

Andrew flinches, leg reflexively kicking out, before he’s fully conscious of doing it. He throws his paintbrush in the process, paint arcing in the air, and it’s almost funny, really, he could laugh at how artistic it looks. Maybe he should turn to performance art.

But then again, he’d just ruin it all.

This portrait, too, is ruined, splayed open like an operation gone wrong, blood dripping down, and Andrew kicks that to the ground, too.

“Andrew?” The voice is soft, melodic, and familiar. Too bad Andrew has no fucking clue who it is. 

“Andrew? It’s Renee.” Andrew turns to see, yes, it should check out, shouldn’t it? A woman is in this studio now, purple colored hair, short, shoulder length. Andrew has no idea how long she has been standing there. Maybe it’s for the best.

“Renee,” Andrew deadpans. He’s a wrung out towel, no emotion left to leak. 

There are ripped portraits of his failures littering the floor, taking up the space between the two. Neither of them move. He knows Renee can see them, can see his frustration, but she does not comment on it.

One of Renee’s most redeeming qualities is her commitment to tact, and instinctual knowledge to avoid prodding a pestering wound.

“Would you like to accompany me on a break? I’ve been working on my final portfolio for far too long.”

Andrew shrugs. It is not a yes, but it is not a no. Renee knows better than to assume.

“We could stay here and talk, if you’d like.” Another pause, silence stretching and growing between them. “Or I could leave you alone.”

“No,” Andrew says. He casts a glance around the room, suffocating and dark and small. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t take anything with him, not a coat or his phone or his keys. It’s strange; the cold surely is biting his fingers, his cheeks, but Andrew doesn’t even feel it. He’s wound up tight, every nerve on fire, so hot he feels he could combust at any moment. A ticking fucking time bomb. But that’s all he’s ever been, all he’ll ever be. 

Renee keeps pace with him, or, well, Andrew assumes by the tapping of boots steadily following, but giving Andrew space. He doesn’t look back to check. But he supposes he wouldn’t know, either way, if it truly is her following behind. 

Andrew’s fighting the wind and cold in one moment, and then, the next he’s wrapping his right hand up and fighting at the gym. It’s mechanical, physical, nothing more or less. 

He’s probably fighting Renee. Probably. No one else would come close, not while Andrew is burning so hot, steam rolling off, scalding to the touch. 

He uppercuts with his right, but it’s blocked. A side step, twist, and then a left hook. Stopped again, but the reaction is slower. Andrew can feel the blood pumping in his veins, connecting his hands to his arms to his heart.

The silence is loud, in its own way, but now it’s just nothing. The way silence is supposed to be. 

Maybe his blood is cooling down, his head clearing.

“How’s your portrait going, Andrew?” Renee interrupts, her voice so soft Andrew could ignore it. He could claim he didn’t hear it, so focused on his breaths, the weight of the bandages on his hands, the sweat on his brow. “How’s working with Neil?”

Andrew takes time to actually consider the questions. How is his portrait going? Shit. How is Neil? Shit. So he answers. “Shit.”

Maybe-Renee laughs, soft and sweet. “I’ve found a similar struggle with my own final project. It’s just pottery, clay even, and yet.” 

Probably-Renee trails off. It looks as though she has lowered her guard slightly, but, well, Renee is never careless. Andrew knows better than to try. “I’m surprised to hear about Neil, though. I’m not that close with him but I’ve heard he’s…”

“Insufferable.” Andrew finishes the statement. 

“Well,” possibly-Renee says, eyebrow raised, “actually, I was going to say agreeable. Matt speaks very highly of him.”

“Ha.” Matt is an idiot.

“I was going to suggest getting to know Neil a little better.” Renee says, trying so hard to be nonchalant that it comes out a little stiff. “It might help with your final portrait.”

“Renee.” The name falls from Andrew’s mouth clumsily, a test, albeit weak. Renee’s expression doesn’t shift, which doesn’t immediately mean he has guessed right. But she doesn’t object, either, so perhaps it is safe to assume it is Renee. “Don’t beat around the bush.”

“I just think he might be a bit more like us,” Renee answers, apparently carefully choosing her words. There are ears and eyes everywhere. 

Andrew and Renee are closer to broken, rather than cracked but mostly healed. An important distinction when classifying degenerates. There are those, like Matthew Boyd, who grew up rather privileged and merely brushed against the law. Then, there were those like Andrew, like Renee, born to a rotten world, slowly decaying from the inside out. Andrew is a limb waiting to be amputated.

Renee, at the least, has attempted to heal from her stints in foster care, the trouble she got into with the wrong crowd. She was adopted and thus led down a path of ‘recovery.’ She wears a cross and claims to have boxed the dark side of herself up, tucked it carefully under the bed. Andrew is less interested in the person Renee has become, and more so in the darkness she still holds. The understanding they share, connected the way two people who have stared down the barrel of a gun and lived are. 

Renee’s claim of Neil is not one she would make lightly. 

“You can always fire him if he’s only insufferable,” Renee says. 

Andrew tips his head in thought, but otherwise declines to speak. 

Renee, for her part, is used to Andrew’s taciturn tendencies and takes the silence at face value. Andrew will weigh his options carefully before making a decision. 

Renee smiles “Ready for round two?”

And so they fight until Andrew is too physically exhausted to think about anything other than the sweat on his brow, his strained muscles. 

For a moment, everything is silent, but not mind numbing.

***

James McNabb’s [ _Circle_ ](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/55034903e4b0619cc3a233bc/1447530172042-XAZ7QG0J74GVRI83BPEE/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kHCGRQ3oOCde4ow1Nox-FsJ7gQa3H78H3Y0txjaiv_0fDoOvxcdMmMKkDsyUqMSsMWxHk725yiiHCCLfrh8O1z4YTzHvnKhyp6Da-NYroOW3ZGjoBKy3azqku80C789l0mhydAgiKdIfeAoxVgE7c7pi5z75li6jxoz9rYB0_kg-IqTifo_-qFZ1gkAcSbHiig/Basel-City-Wheel-WM.jpg?format=2500w) depicts a wooden cityscape carved along the cored center of a massive wooden circle. This sculpture, compared to his other works, is jagged, uneven in its spiking buildings in both color and lengths. McNabb claims to use unwanted scraps of wood, taking something damaged and resculpting it into a work of art. The effect, whether intentional or not, mirrors that of the city looking back at the viewer, an eerie resemblance of a human eye sans a pupil. The viewer gazes into the cityscape and it gazes back. To see and yet be unseen. 

The forced symbolism of unwanted wood is a bit distasteful for Andrew’s palate, yet the sculpture’s popularity is unmatched by his other works. Despite everything, Andrew finds it difficult to look away from his galleries, from the _Circle_ specifically. Of course, he has never been allowed to try wood carving, too many dangerous tools for an ex-juvie kid with no future prospects, so he could be drawn to it out of spite. One of the appeals of painting is the physicality of the craft, so it stands to reason that wood carving would also hold the same appeal. 

Too bad Andrew will never know.

“Andrew? It’s Neil,” Neil taps the door as he says it, twice in quick succession. Neil does this every time he is near a door, a subconscious habit or a strange superstition. Andrew would assume the former, but he doesn’t care enough to ask. “Is now a good time?”

Andrew lifts an eyebrow. They’ve had a couple of failed portrait sessions by now, but Neil has never been so reticent. He stands in the doorway, sans bag for once, but he’s got a glazed look to his eyes, one that Andrew can’t puzzle out.

“Neil.” It could be an exclamation or a question; with the monotone quality to Andrew’s voice, most people make an assumption, one way or the other. Neil, though? Neil waits. Even now. “Forget your bag?”

Neil flinches, so subtly most people would have missed it. 

“Yeah.” He says, finally, clipped and impersonal. “I only have an hour today.” Neil still hasn’t made a move to come further into the room. 

Andrew jerks his head towards the stool opposite his work station. It is exactly where Neil left it last. It’s winter break, now. So most people who have somewhere to go, have gone. Part of the appeal of this university is that it allows students to stay on campus, no questions asked. Andrew is a little surprised to find that Neil also stuck around on campus. 

“Better get started, then.” Is what Andrew decides to say, after chewing on his thoughts, grinding them to dust. 

Neil stiffly enters the room, but realigns himself on the stool, all sharp angles and edges. Broken glass sticking out and ready to collapse, but somehow holding together. It’s a kind of balancing act Andrew hasn’t seen from Neil. Or, at the very least, one that Neil hasn’t allowed to be seen.

In any event, it isn’t one for Andrew to comment on.

It starts the way it always does. Andrew takes too much time to mix and color match paint, studying the curves of Neil’s face, his facial scarring, the waves and color of his hair, and then he immediately forgets everything when he looks at the canvas. Andrew is numb to it by now. It’s repeating the same monotony of everyday life at this point. Andrew rises with the irritating thumps above him, bird squawking outside, and he falls asleep to the sounds of cars speeding by outside his window.

But the white of the canvas in front of him still waits to be filled in. At the very least, Andrew is sure that the portraits he does eventually paint are entirely different from one another. He has yet to get a straight answer from Neil, but it’s more probable that the portraits differ rather than are exactly replicated. 

He’s just finishing up Neil’s hair when a phone goes off. The ringtone is the default on the absolute lowest setting, yet Neil nearly jumps out of the chair. Neil pulls an outdated flip phone out of his pocket and stares at it for a moment. The strangest expression crosses his face, almost like fear, before he glances at the door, then Andrew, but ultimately sighs and answers it without moving. 

Neil’s speaking softly, but Andrew can immediately identify that he is not speaking in English, but rather… German?

Andrew hasn’t heard German since his last semester of high school, but he knows the basics. 

“...I will be back later,” Neil is saying, soft but strangely strained, “did you take your medication-”

Neil winces and tilts the receiver away from his ear, as if the other person is yelling, and, yes, Andrew can faintly make out another voice. Neil doesn’t say anything for a few more minutes, his expression growing more and more cross. 

“We’ve talked about this,” Neil interrupts. “He’s not coming back. We don’t have to-” Neil cuts himself off, takes a breath. “I’ll be home later. Just- stay where you are. Don’t leave. I’ll stop by the pharmacy on the way back. Promise?”

Neil’s knuckles are bone white with how hard he’s gripping the cellphone. Andrew is a little surprised it hasn’t cracked in half. Then, without another word, he snaps the phone shut, stares at it like he’s contemplating throwing it against the wall, before ultimately shoving it back into his pocket.

When he shifts in his chair so he’s facing Andrew, he pauses as he sees that Andrew has been blatantly watching him.

“Trouble at home?” Andrew says, mostly to get a reaction.

Surprisingly, Neil’s expression stays carefully blank. “It’s nothing.” He doesn’t offer anything else up. 

“That.” Andrew points a brush at the pocket where Neil’s phone is hidden away. “Was not nothing.”

Neil is a marble statue, unflinching yet unaware of the impending crane about to crack his skull open. For the first time in a long time, Andrew feels the thrum of curiosity. 

“A truth for a truth,” Andrew says, finally, when it becomes apparent that Neil will continue to ignore him. It’s a whim for Andrew. A momentary distraction. Hadn’t Renee suggested that getting to know Neil would help fuel his artwork? Andrew doesn’t really believe in ascribing hidden meaning to his artwork, but maybe he should listen to Renee.

This earns a scoff from Neil. “You would be truthful?”

“I’m always honest.” Andrew puts the brush back down and cracks his knuckles, paint smearing ever further into his sleeves, his hands. “Well?”

Another scoff, but he doesn’t protest. 

“I’ll go first. Why don’t you paint?”

“Well.” Neil blinks back. He hadn’t been expecting Andrew to ask a mundane first question, but Neil obviously is obsessed with painting and art. Otherwise, why would he tolerate spending time with Andrew? Why would he come today when he clearly is in a terrible mood? “It’s not practical. I can’t make a living off of it, and anyway…” Neil trails off, eyes a little glazed. “...it’s not safe.”

Andrew tucks that away for later and inclines his head. 

Neil taps against his jeans, another nervous habit Andrew has noticed. Usually, Neil is unnaturally still, as if he’s replicating an animal playing dead. If he doesn’t move, he won’t be seen. “Who’s your favorite artist?”

The question makes Andrew pause. Neil, it seems, is also testing the waters. “I don’t have one. But...” Andrew trails off.

There are some artists whose work is not bad. “Gentileschi. Schaller. Liu Wei. Their art is tolerable.”

“Huh.” Neil tilts his head. He’s picking at a thread on his jeans now, scratching it up and out. “I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”

“You answered,” Andrew says. A trade is an impersonal, equivalent exchange. If Neil answers truthfully, Andrew will follow suit. 

Neil huffs, but stops picking at his jeans. He looks up at Andrew. “You should check out Chuck Close.” It’s said casually, almost too much so, yet Neil’s focus is solely on Andrew, attention Neil did not have even moments prior. It’s as if he is making sure that this message, at least, is sent and received. 

“Why would I do that?” Andrew is not one to do anything for free.

Neil huffs again, his lips twisting ever so slightly into a wry grimace. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But I think it would be worthwhile.”

Andrew tucks it away to look at another time. His fingers are itching, his mouth dry. He needs a cigarette. “Stay here or follow me, if you dare.”

Abruptly, Andrew leaves his stool, the studio, paint smearing on the doorknob of the studio’s door, carelessly flung open. Andrew doesn’t look behind him, but he can hear Neil’s gentle footfalls that indicates he is silently following. 

The lock to the rooftop is as feeble as ever and takes Andrew no time at all to break through. It’s dark, mildly cold, now, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not about how far out you see, but rather how far down. It’s grounding, in a way, to face a looming height and feel something in its wake. 

It’s better than feeling nothing at all. 

Andrew takes perch on the outer ledge and throws a pack of cigarettes in front of him.

Andrew presumes it is Neil hovering by the door, like an apparition waiting for a fucking invitation. The slap of the cigarette box against the cement slab seems to be enough of one and Neil hovers over. Andrew is about to pass along the silver lighter he always carries around with him, but Neil has beat him to it with a plastic one he must have gotten from some shitty gas station. He lights up, but he doesn’t smoke. Instead he holds the cigarette close to enough to touch his lips, but not enough to get an actual drag. He inhales, burning his own lungs with secondhand smoke, and his eyes shutter shut.

“Not the most effective way to smoke,” Andrew says, cutting the silence in half like a knife through butter. His own cigarette is still pinched between his lips, a steady flow of smoke ebbing and flowing from his mouth. 

Neil shrugs, a subtle uptick of a shoulder, and looks at Andrew. “I don’t smoke. But,” he says, glancing down the edge, to the darkness obscuring the bottom of the fall, “it’s calming. The smell of smoke.”

Andrew exhales one, long, drag. Neil doesn’t cough or move away.

“That’s fucked up,” Andrew says. 

Andrew’s response startles something mimicking a laugh from Neil. It’s an aborted sound, as if he’s stifling the noise, a hand covering his mouth, suffocating it. Neil tends to cut himself off, both from loud noises and large gestures as if he’s taking up too much space by just existing. He’s resigned to live through minute details, the cracks and corners of a rotting home. 

Andrew stares at Neil and sees a reflection, instead of a person. He wants to punch a hole through the mirror, watch the cracks spider out, but then the act of wanting in itself startles Andrew enough to abort the notion. Who the fuck _is_ Neil? 

“Yeah,” Neil says, as he inhales more smoke. Andrew’s attention is pulled to Neil again, out of his own head and back to reality. That, too, is concerning. 

“So’s life.” Neil has a half smile as he says it, just a tiny uptick of his mouth, but it’s the closest to a smile Andrew has seen from Neil. Neil is just an imprint of a person, a flimsy imitation. But Andrew can trace the cracks. 

“How do you solve your problems, Neil?” Andrew doesn’t know what possesses him. Maybe he just wants to see Neil crack apart. Bee has always warned him of his self destructive ways, but, well.

“Is this another exchange?” Neil says, in neat avoidance of an otherwise straightforward question.

“If that is what it will take for you to answer then, sure.”

“Hmm.” Neil’s cigarette is out, now. A weak red biting at the filter, almost kissing Neil’s lips. “You won’t like the question I ask.”

Andrew shrugs. 

“I don’t, usually. They go away on their own or…” Neil trails off. He pulls another cigarette out and lights up. This time he does take a drag, injecting nicotine directly into his lungs. “...they get stomped out by an outside influence. There’s not much I can do about it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, I’d need a more specific question, wouldn’t I?” The cigarette is still tucked between Neil’s lips, hanging half-heartedly as Neil refuses both to inhale another drag or to set it down and let it burn. 

“You just let the world happen to you, don’t you, Neil Josten?” 

“The world doesn’t happen.” Neil corrects softly, almost to himself. As if Andrew isn’t even there. “The people do. You can’t control anything, especially not shitty people.”

Andrew throws his own cigarette off the side of the building. He picks up another one and snaps it in half just for good measure. Shitty people? An understatement. But maybe Neil knows that. 

“True,” Andrew says. “But you are not doing anything to solve your problems.”

“You.” Something twists Neil’s expression, but it’s gone so quickly Andrew can’t identify it. “Should probably focus on your own problems, rather than on your perception of mine.”

Hm. 

“Avoidance can’t save you forever, Neil Josten.” 

“It can’t save you either,” Neil retorts. If anger were a physical manifestation, it would take the form of the ‘Neil Josten’ in front of him. All fire, no bite. But, there is an undercurrent of something underneath the surface anger, something darker.

Andrew wants to solve this puzzle.

They sit in silence, for a while. The smoke, ebbing and flowing, sinks into the silence, their only shared connection. Eventually, Neil stands, stretches, and leaves without a glance in Andrew’s direction. Apparently, Andrew had rubbed Neil’s nerves too raw, tonight. So be it.

There will be no more painting today.

***

Chuck Close. Andrew has never heard of this artist before, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything other than that Neil is more in tune with the art community than he is willing to admit. Andrew stares at Google, his cursor blinking behind the ‘e’ and thinks, not for the first time how fucking annoying Neil is. Still, curiosity gets the better of him, so he hits enter.

The results are largely portraits, both pixelated and realistic. Andrew can’t tell if the subject matter is the same or varied and immediately puts his phone to sleep. Andrew fucking hates portrait artists and has no desire to research another one. He will not learn their techniques, nor will he waste time studying their works. He has tried and failed. The real question is whether this is Neil’s attempt to help or another jab. Not that Neil would admit to either, so Andrew will probably never know. 

Instead of dwelling on it any further, Andrew pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He’s waiting just outside Bee’s office before his next therapy appointment. 

Students passing by make weird expressions at him, eyes warily darting to his cigarette and the sign he is leaning against that says ‘no smoking’ and yet none of them are brave enough to say anything to Andrew. His reputation apparently precedes him. Good. 

He flicks the cigarett butt to the ground next to the ashtray and grounds his shoe into it. 

Here goes nothing. 

Bee, or, Andrew presumes it is Bee, appears put together and orderly. Her office, on the other hand, is an organized collection of clutter from both previous students and of her own making. She claims she initially collected nick nacks to fill some empty space but enjoyed the hobby enough to continue and is now at over capacity. Andrew’s attention will sometimes wander to the snow globes, then the collection of books, catching onto whatever is new or interesting enough to fixate on at the moment. 

“Andrew,” Bee says. “How are you, today?”

It’s routine; an expected question. So Andrew gives the expected response, a shoulder shrug as he slinks into the chair across from her.

Bee smiles, mild as a light dusting of frost over grass. “Thank you, again, for taking the time to meet with me. Anything in particular you’d like to start with, today?”

Another expected question aimed to allow Andrew to feel in control of the topic of conversation. Andrew is more withdrawn than usual and at this he also shrugs.

Bee writes in her notebook, but turns her attention back to Andrew when she is finished. “Alright. Let me know if you would like to change topics or if you are not comfortable with anything I bring up, ok?”

A nod.

“From our last session, I believe you had been looking for a model to help with your portraits. Were you successful in finding one?”

Andrew shrugs, a subtle uptick of one shoulder. Neil is an anomaly, someone that Andrew can’t say with any confidence has been either helpful or unhelpful in his art process. Interesting? Sure. But his portraits haven’t improved. Though, objectively, that probably has nothing to do with Neil.

Finally, Andrew says, “Yes. Neil has been posing for the portrait. But it has not been successful.”

“I see.” Bee tips her head, probably to visibly show her engagement. But, knowing her, it isn’t just for show; she probably is genuinely engaged. It’s part of the reason why Andrew continues to see her. “Do you find Neil challenging to deal with or are you referring to being challenged by the portrait?”

“Neil is a bastard,” Andrew hears himself say, almost as if he’s not in control of his words, his mouth moving before his brain can catch up. “But he is not the biggest challenge.”

“Thanks for sharing, Andrew. A couple of sessions ago, we spoke of the importance of identifying our challenges and addressing them, rather than ignoring problems and resorting to internalizing them. This is another moment I would like to apply this lesson to, if that’s ok with you?” Bee waits for Andrew to interject and when he doesn’t, she continues, “Would you say the challenge Neil brings is hindering the completion of your portrait? Or is it unrelated?”

“Neil is… infuriating. But he isn’t the reason why the portrait is a challenge.” Andrew scratches at the loose thread in the armchair and shrugs again. 

“Infuriating,” Bee repeats, almost to herself. “Would an alternate model positively contribute to your portrait progress?”

A different model? Andrew pauses in thought. Bringing another variable into Andrew’s space, potentially one that is annoying or invasive...no. That would not be helpful. Neil is interesting, at least. More than Andrew had thought. Somewhat distracting, maybe. But...somehow Andrew doesn’t want to cut him loose, just yet. There is still more to learn.

“No,” Andrew says. “Someone else would be worse, probably.”

“Or they could be better. Have you considered-”

“No,” Andrew interjects and leaves it at that.

Andrew is not known for subtly, but Bee seems happy to hear his interjection, rather than annoyed at being cut off. 

“Ok. So removing Neil will not resolve the problem. When you said he was infuriating, what exactly did you mean by that?”

Andrew has successfully pulled the thread from the couch, but now has nothing to fiddle with. He starts to scratch at his armband. “He is secretive. He’ll say something, but mean something else. It’s annoying.”

“Honesty is very important. I can see how that would be infuriating.”

“No.” Neil isn’t dishonest, he just holds the truth close to his chest and refuses to let anyone else see. “It is not that. He just…” Andrew waves a hand.

“Hmm.” Bee taps her clipboard. “I confess, I don’t know much about the art process. I only ever took the required art courses when I was in highschool. But I think it may be beneficial, perhaps, to foster a positive relationship with Neil that will hopefully make the portrait process less infuriating and more productive. You are an amazing artist, Andrew. You have scholarships and evaluations that continually support that fact. Even though you are struggling with this portrait, I want you to remember that it is not a reflection of a personal failing. I would like for you to not internalize your perceived portrait failure, but instead adjust the lens with which you are approaching your art and your perception of self.” 

This grabs Andrew’s attention back to Bee. She is… not correct about the portrait. Improving a relationship with Neil will not magically allow Andrew the ability to draw a fucking portrait. But… learning to cooperate more with Neil wouldn’t exactly hinder the process either. 

When Andrew doesn’t answer, Bee says, “It may be helpful to ask Neil directly to clarify what he means when he is being infuriating. It is possible that he is not intentionally trying to be mysterious or withhold information. He may have difficulties with communication.”

Andrew snorts at that. Difficulties with communication, huh? Neil wouldn’t know how to communicate with a paper bag. 

“Plus, it may be beneficial to have another positive person in your life.”

Andrew rolls his eyes at that. He doesn’t need anyone in his life, his time in foster care proved that fact over and over again. But he bites his tongue; they’ve had this argument before and usually they don’t get anywhere productive. Andrew is drained and doesn’t feel like talking, anymore. 

“Thank you, Andrew. I believe we’ve run out of time for today. Same time next week?”

Andrew nods, already standing in his eagerness to escape. If Bee notices, she has the grace to ignore it. 

***

At first glance, it’s just an image of a monochromatic tree on brown paper. [ _Incense Stick_ ](https://www.studios-efanyc.org/jihyun-park/) by Jihyun Park; however, is a modern example of pointillism, an image created from a collection of dots. In this case, Park uses incense sticks to burn holes into rice paper rather than a traditional pen or paintbrush. The tree, however, looks naturally shaded, as if the artist was lying underneath its branches and copying its likeness directly onto paper. Andrew presses a thumb to the image on his phone; the tree looks back at him innocently. It is a tree and yet it isn’t. It’s incense burned into paper. 

The concept challenges the idea of what constitutes art, of how one approaches creating art. Andrew can appreciate, at the very least, the time the artist has put into this series, the care of burning holes in the paper just right to create a billowing cloud effect in his image of smoke in the sky. Ironically, similar to the smoke of the very incense stick used to create its image. There is no margin for error, as you cannot undo a hole burned into paper. Instead, you must adapt or start over. Something about the permanence of the art method and the art style appeals to Andrew, but he can’t quite articulate why.

He’s just cleaning his brushes when he hears the tell tale knock on the door. He has another appointment with Neil today, the first since his session with Bee, yet Andrew hadn’t made a concrete plan to confront Neil with yet. He doesn’t even think he will end up saying anything, anyway. Andrew grunts his greeting, but otherwise doesn’t turn around.

The door opens and then a quiet murmur, “Andrew? It’s Neil.”

Andrew rolls his eyes and finally turns to look at Neil.

Neil, though, isn’t looking at Andrew, instead opting to take perch at his stool in silence. He is, however, without his backpack today and has his hood drawn, almost completely obscuring his face. Well that kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it.

“Neil,” Andrew says. There’s no inflection in his tone, but Neil reacts with a full bodied flinch, as if Andrew has yelled his name. Still, he does not turn to Andrew. Well. He can only keep this up for so long.

Andrew takes his time setting up, pouring the paints, and finishing his brush cleanse. He finally pulls a fresh canvas out and has settled in his stool when he looks over to Neil.

Neil sighs and pulls his hood down. Neil’s face is, to put it bluntly, fucked up. There is a bruise that stretches across Neil’s right eye, a purple and blue mottled mess that crests his cheekbone. There’s a scratch on his other cheek, an angry red slash that cuts into his mouth. Neil is very obviously attempting to avoid eye contact at all cost, shoulders slumped in, fingers pulling at the loose strings of his oversized hoodie. 

“What the fuck happened to your face?” Andrew is up and across the room to grip Neil’s chin before he can really process what he’s doing. 

Perhaps just to be contrary, Neil focuses his attention anywhere but on Andrew. “I always look like this.”

Andrew scoffs. Andrew may struggle to identify the details of human expression, but he is an expert in classifying how old an injury is at a single glance. These wounds are fresh, no more than a few hours old. “I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Neil neatly sidesteps the question, an old act at this point. He evades and dodges and ignores. It’s all he knows. “I got in a fight. What the fuck does it matter?”

A fight? “If that’s true, then why try to hide it?”

Neil jerks out of Andrew’s grip and takes a step back. Finally, he looks at Andrew. His face is carefully blank, but there is a fire burning behind his eyes. The fear of being seen, of someone catching your cut wrists and pressing too hard. “What are you, my keeper?”

Anger bubbles up, threatening to spill over. The kind of anger that rots holes in your stomach, an oozing toxic mess that spills out and disintegrates anything and everything it touches. It’s not rational, of course it isn’t, and even Andrew knows that, so he tries to cauterize the wound, tries to keep the toxicity from leaking out. Listening to Neil, watching the way he cowers in on himself--

It infuriates Andrew in a way he can’t fully verbalize. It’s like staring into a mirror and seeing Andrew when--

Andrew violently cuts that line of thought off, a fist through broken broken glass. 

The line of thought isn’t productive, either. Bee would say Andrew should remove himself from a triggering situation. And it would be so fucking easy to walk away, wouldn’t it? Neil is nothing and no one to him. Just a fucking subject for his final portrait. He could just make up a portrait and turn that in, for all the progress he’s made with Neil.

Neil eyes him down, warily, looking for all intents and purposes like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Andrew should let him run away, run to his demise. 

_You’re just like me, Aj._

Andrew violently shakes away the memory threatening to drag him down. He clears his throat, and tries again. “Who did this to you?”

“Did you research Chuck Close?” Neil spits instead of answering. “You probably didn’t, right? Otherwise, you would’ve kicked me out.”

Neil, it seems, is lashing out against everyone and anything. Blindly throwing out jabs and hoping that something lands. Neil is desperately clutching at his secrets with bloodied fingers, as if he’ll die if he lets one slip. If he lets someone in.

Andrew rolls his eyes; only Neil would be so dramatic to go to such lengths. “You are avoiding the problem, just as you always do.”

Neil pinches his mouth shut instead of responding. So he does have the self-control to not let it slip even though he is clearly emotionally distressed.

Andrew takes a step back, evaluating. Finally, he says, “Why not kill the problem, instead of hide it?”

Neil blinks back at him, pinched anger still in his mouth, but his jaw relaxes slightly in his surprise. “What?”

“A truth for a truth, right Neil? I eliminate my problems, not hide from them. It’s better that way.” Andrew, feels the tension build in his shoulders, his jaw clenching as he fights the memories that assault him. Hands forcing him back, breath on the shell of his ear, blood under his fingernails. He bites back bile. “You could, too, if you’d just be brave enough to spill. The world is too fucked up to not get your hands dirty. Or are you scared?”

To his credit, Neil doesn’t flinch away or look at Andrew in a mixture of disbelief and fear. His gaze has not left Andrew’s and Andrew can see the gears of his mind turning. Considering if he should let the secret slip, instead of considering if Andrew is being serious or not.

It’s...different. Most people disregard the things Andrew says as lies or exaggerations. Andrew isn’t sure what to think of this now and he won’t think about it until much later when his insomnia keeps him up at night, smoking on the rooftop. Even then, he’ll shove it aside, down and away from sight. Internalizing problems, Bee likes to say. Andrew knows it to be true.

The tension bleeds from Neil’s mouth. But it isn’t determination that replaces it or even the simple desire to fight. No. Andrew recognizes this for what it really is.

A sign of defeat. Of giving into your demons for the hundredth time, of screaming into a black hole with no hope of anyone hearing you or pulling you out. Andrew looks at Neil and sees someone who has stared into the abyss with perfect understanding of being a meaningless existence in the grand scope of the universe. For the first time in a long time, Andrew looks at Neil with complete understanding and empathy. Andrew had thought himself incapable of the emotion, frankly. 

“No,” Neil sighs, defeat in every line of his facial expression. “No. I can’t just erase her-” Neil cuts himself off. “I can’t… abandon-”

Neil bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, jerking his head away, closing his eyes. If you can’t see or hear or feel the problem, is it really there? 

“Neil,” Andrew grips Neil’s chin, as gently as he would a glass sculpture and turns Neil’s head to face him. “What are you so afraid of?”

At that, Neil opens his eyes. “...I’m not afraid. I just...can’t.”

He says one thing, yet his body language indicates another. Neil is acting out, much in the way a fox would lash out with a leg caught in a bear trap. It’s all he knows, Andrew realizes suddenly. The real question is why does Andrew care to know? Why is he pushing?

Andrew releases Neil as suddenly as he had gripped Neil’s chin. Instead, he points at the door and says, “Roof.”

Andrew waits for Neil to leave first and silently follows behind. If he’s going to have any kind of conversation with Neil, it needs to be away from the studio, and he damn well better have nicotine numbing his senses. He can’t do this with Neil right now, and yet, Andrew has the feeling this is the only time he’ll get anything concrete from Neil. Anything real. 

Andrew is overcome with the need to smash his fist through a window, and he almost does, too, when they approach the door leading to the roof. But, he acts upon his control. Now is not the time. 

Andrew settles and perches on the roof’s edge, looking out into the rapidly dimming skyline. His cigarette is lit and between his lips before he consciously even thinks about it. He does, however, remember to throw the pack to Neil so he may light up if he so chooses. Surprisingly, Neil doesn’t. His eyes haven’t left Andrew since they’ve arrived at the roof. Waiting. Anticipating. Prey warily evaluating its situation; its chance at escape and survival. But that’s just Neil, isn't’ it? Always surveying the scene, cautiously thinking up every possible escape no matter the scenario.

“Toxic is toxic,” Andrew breaks the silence with a sharp exhale, cigarette smoke burning his lungs long enough. “You’re not abandoning shit if you cut toxic out.”

Neil exhales shakily. He picks up the cigarette box and lights up one of his own. To Andrew’s surprise, Neil actually takes a drag.

“It’s not that simple,” Neil says, finally, as if each word in an anchor dragging him to the bottom of the ocean. 

“It can be,” Andrew says. 

“A truth for a truth.” Neil mumbles, almost to himself, but Andrew’s sure it’s meant for him. “Were any of your foster homes good?”

Andrew almost misses the question, as he is mildly surprised that Neil even knew Andrew was raised in foster care. Andrew’s reputation, it seems, precedes him. He thinks about ignoring the question altogether, but Neil is trying to grab onto something: a ledge, a commonality, anything. Andrew can recognize this, even if Neil can’t. Andrew nods. 

Andrew tips his head as he takes another sharp drag. When he exhales, it is directly in Neil’s face. “No.”

Neil nods, as if it’s the answer he was expecting. It irks Andrew for some reason he can’t quite pinpoint. He decides to hit back.

“Who fucked up your face?”

Neil flinches at that, but he seems to have come to some resolution. He presses a hand to his face, right where his bruise is, his eyes a little glazed as he says, “...my mother.”

Anger swirls in the pit of Andrew’s stomach, acidic and flaming hot. It’s always the ones closest to you that hurt the most. This Andrew knows well. He stamps out the anger and keeps his expression neutral, so as to not scare Neil away.

“How did you…” Neil’s biting his lip again, the same place where he originally drew blood. Neil takes a breath and tries again. “How did you avoid running from your problems?”

Andrew snaps the cigarette he’s holding in half and grounds it into the cement. He pulls out another one, lights up again, and leans forward. “I killed one.”

To his credit, Neil doesn’t lean away or flinch.

“Does that scare you, Neil?” Andrew poses it as a question with an expected answer. The clouds form and the rain falls. Of course he would be afraid; it’s self preservation.

It’s the natural order; the way of the world. 

“I’m not scared of you, Andrew.” Neil looks into Andrew’s eyes and it’s the steadiest Neil’s gaze has been all day. He holds the look of someone who’s seen the dark underbelly of the world and lived to tell the tale. Of someone whose only option is to make the worst decisions possible in order to survive.

Andrew looks at Neil and sees an echo of understanding reflected back.

This time it’s Andrew who avoids eye contact. The gentle threads of trust are being built and Andrew cannot fucking stand it. He knows better than to let someone else in, let someone else see him. The last time someone got this close, tried to sneak in, Andrew had done everything he could to hang on, but still lost everything in the end. 

He knows better.

Cigarette smoke tastes almost acidic on Andrew’s tongue, but he continues to take long, burning drags as he looks out onto the now darkened sky. Andrew focuses his energy on the sounds of the rustling leaves, the burnt wood smell of an upcoming winter, the feeling of the cold cement seeping through his pants. It’s the closest Andrew can approach to a calm nonexistence instead of a dreadful reality. It’s quiet for so long, Andrew almost forgets Neil is even there at all.

“Chuck Close,” Neil says, soft enough that Andrew could focus on the rustling branches if he wanted. Instead, he tunes into Neil’s voice. “Is an artist with prosopagnosia. He can’t distinguish facial features, but still produces hyper-realistic portraits. You can’t recognize faces either, right?”

When Andrew turns to Neil, Neil is already looking at him. Or, maybe, he never looked away. Andrew can’t identify his own reaction to Neil’s words, be it a mixture of shock or anger or disbelief, or frankly, nothing at all. They are just words to Andrew. Instead, Andrew flicks his cigarette at Neil and manages to hit him square in the chest. 

“A truth for a truth, right?” Neil says with a grimace resembling a half smile. “You don’t have to take my word for it, but if you look him up, he talks about his art process and techniques to paint portraits even though he can’t recognize faces.”

Andrew has lit another cigarette during Neil’s monologue and has half a mind to chuck another one right at his stupid fucking face. Instead, his gaze has shifted back to the rustling trees, the buildings just beyond. He is done with this conversation.

Neil, stupid fucking Neil, it seems, will not be deterred. “It wouldn’t hurt to try another method. I’ll bring a camera to our next session.”

Andrew hears the scraping of Neil’s shoes on the cement and then the gentle shuffle of Neil shifting off the edge to the safety of the rooftop. “Thanks Andrew. I’ll see you next time.”

Andrew can’t bear to watch him leave. 

He’s down to his last cigarette, nursing a dying flame, but he doesn’t feel like moving. 

Neil fucking Josten, huh?

***

Andrew flips through the art in Kehinde Wiley’s [ _Iconic_ ](http://kehindewiley.com/works/iconic/) online portfolio in an attempt to study portraits. The meld of 15th century icons depicting modern subjects is an interesting twist on modern portraiture. Kehinde’s art resembles photography stuck onto gold wooden frames, and yet, Andrew understands that they are uniquely painted oil portraits. He studies the shadows masterfully blended to add depth to the skin tone and cast natural shadow over the faces and even the clothes, juxtaposed with the almost two dimensional looking flowers Andrew can only presume to be characteristic in the time period. Andrew absorbs every detail of the oil painting, every curve and swoop of the brushstrokes, every decision of color and shading placement, but the second he flips to another portrait and back, it’s like his memory has been wiped of the facial features. Frustration curls in his stomach, a familiar feeling when looking at portraits, but before he force quits the browser and marks it up to another failure, he pauses. 

Prosopagnosia, huh?

He could open another tab, type the word in, and press enter. Maybe, Neil is onto something.

Another flair of frustration hits; what the fuck would Neil know? Instead, Andrew puts his phone to sleep. He’s in his studio today working on touching up his other paintings in preparation for the gallery at the end of the semester. He mainly likes to paint obscure architecture or subjects that aren’t conventionally aesthetic. He’s just finished touching up the shadows in his rooftop scene, when he’s interrupted by a tentative knock on the door. A familiar rhythm.

“Andrew? It’s Neil.” Neil announces as he opens the door, but he pauses in the doorframe. 

Neil isn’t due for a portrait session today and has never intentionally sought Andrew out outside their scheduled sessions, so Andrew turns to look without really thinking about it. Neil is without his backpack again today, but has a singular strap slung diagonally across his chest. 

“What,” Andrew says, emphasis on the ‘what’ as he warily eyes Neil’s approaching figure. “Are you doing here, Neil?”

Neil’s hood is drawn today, partially casting his face in shadow, but Andrew can make out the eye roll. “Did you forget our last conversation?”

Neil stops in front of Andrew and pulls the strap off, revealing a camera bag. Neil places the camera on the nearby table and crosses his arm. “For you to borrow. Just don’t destroy it.”

Andrew gingerly opens the bag and pulls out the camera. The camera is foreign in Andrew’s hands, an unfamiliar shape and weight as a vehicle for an even more estranged form of art. Drawing, at least, can be done with a shitty lead pencil and scrap paper, but photography requires the funds to expense a camera, access to a development studio, or, at the least, funds to print said photos. Funds which Andrew did not have access to growing up and still doesn’t have access to even now with his pitiful student stipend. Yet, here Andrew is, clutching said camera, a little beat up, sure, but otherwise in decent condition. How Neil with his worn out clothing and nondescript haircut can afford a camera is beyond Andrew.

Maybe he stole it. Wouldn’t that be a thought?

As if reading his mind, Neil says, “You can borrow cameras from the school, you know. I just had this one lying around, but the point stands.”

Andrew very nearly scoffs. Neil literally cannot help but have the last word. When Andrew flicks his attention back to Neil’s face, he sees that it’s fucked. Andrew may not be able to recall the markings on Neil’s face from their last conversation, but he remembers the conversation and he can recognize that the injuries not only look worse, but Neil has a black eye that looks fresh, hours old instead of a days old. Andrew almost drops the camera in his haste to grip Neil’s chin for further examination. Neil, for his part, seems to expect such a reaction and doesn’t even flinch or try to evade Andrew’s touch. He simply allows Andrew to look his fill.

“What’s your excuse today?” Andrew’s tone is more aggressive than he means it to be, but anger irrationally grips his throat. 

Neil bites his lip, as if to force his mouth shut. But it’s just for show. Neil can’t help but bite back if he’s pushed hard enough. Frankly, that threshold is small relative to what Andrew assumes a well-adjusted person’s is. 

Andrew takes another jab. “Fall down the stairs? Run into a wall? What creative excuse do you have today?”

Neil’s eyes flash, and ah, there is the familiar flicker of rage. An emotion Andrew can relate to. 

“No. My wounds are healing,” Neil snaps, but doesn’t pull away from Andrew’s grip. “You just can’t remember what it looked like before.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow. Neil will have to try harder than that to get under his skin. “You must believe I lack intelligence. I know what a fresh black eye looks like.”

Neil winces and, finally, pulls away, turns his head, eyes closed. Andrew watches as Neil collects himself, cutting his fingers on all the glass shards. “...it’s nothing. Just ignore it. I only came by to give you the camera. I have to get to class, anyway.”

Ah, classic Neil. When he can’t talk his way out of his problem, he bolts. A familiar pattern hiding puzzling motivations. Just when Andrew thinks he’s made progress putting the pieces together, Neil takes a hammer to his hard work. 

“Neil,” Andrew’s voice is soft, but firm. Intense, but not threatening. Maybe Neil can recognize the difference, as he freezes in place, still turned away.

“Stop being the prey,” Andrew continues, unhurried. He wants to make sure Neil really hears the message. “Kill the problem. What are you so afraid to lose?”

Neil tilts his head, tightens his hands to fists. He doesn’t turn around. “Have you searched prosopagnosia yet? Or, hell, even Chuck Close?”

Andrew...wasn’t expecting that. He’s surprised enough that he doesn’t answer right away.

Neil whirls around, determination apparent in the tense set of his jaw, his unwavering gaze makes Andrew feel like his skin is peeling off, his secrets coming to the surface. It is unpleasant to see and be seen in return. Andrew almost breaks eye contact but refrains. 

“You have the answer to your problem right in your face, but you won’t even entertain it. I’ll stop being ‘prey’ when you stop self fucking sabatoging.”

Now, it’s Andrew who tilts his head. Self-sabotage?

Neil exhales sharply. “Equivalent exchange, right?”

“That’s not equivalent,” Andrew says, automatically, almost mechanically. Impersonal trades are what Andrew excels in. Maybe it’s different this time, be it because of Neil or because it is pertaining to an exchange of personal information that Andrew has shoved in a box and dropped into cement, keen to never re-examine again. Neil is nothing and no one to Andrew, so why take a drill to the cement and unearth things Andrew is fine to ignore. Andrew is no longer prey, so it doesn’t matter anymore.

This time, Neil looks true and well angry, his expression pinched with it. To see and be seen, huh? “Stop fucking-” Neil cuts himself off. 

Whatever it was Neil wanted to say dies in his throat. Instead, he tries again. “Let me know when you’re ready to address your problems, and I’ll let you know when I’m ready to address mine.”

“Oh, so you’ve acknowledged that you have a problem?” Andrew can’t resist.

This time, Neil raises an eyebrow. “The same way that you’re acknowledging yours.”

Seems Neil can’t resist either. An impasse with neither party being willing to take the next step. How tedious. 

Why does Andrew even care?

He shouldn’t and he doesn’t, but-

***

[ _Self-Portrait/Color,_ ](http://chuckclose.com/work257_zoom.html) [2007](http://chuckclose.com/work257_zoom.html) by Chuck Close is a self portrait using jacquard tapestry, perhaps created in response to his original self portrait made in 1968. The portrait encompasses most of the wall it is displayed on, a real ‘fuck you’ kind of size, one where your eye is immediately drawn to the pale face contrasted against the dark background. Andrew has no idea if the portrait matches the artist, even when comparing both images side by side, annoyingly flicking his eyes from one to the next, but, of course, the image disappears as soon as he looks away. However, considering it made it into his gallery and assuming that the reviews commending the artist for the likeness aren’t being condescending, it must be close enough. Close, it seems, has prosopagnosia and yet is able to produce not only portraits that allegedly match their subjects, but also utilize a range of mediums including painting, drawing, and tapestry. To succeed once is perhaps a fluke, but his entire portfolio consists mainly of portraits, presumably of different subjects; though, Andrew cannot be fully certain.The main question is: how?

Andrew hesitates a moment before clicking on the biography section of Close’s website. Just because Close can successfully create portraits, does not mean he has a one size fit all solution for prosopagnosia, nor does it mean that Andrew suffers from-

Andrew violently cuts off that line of thought. Growing up in foster care, Andrew learned quickly to never have expectations. Even the smallest inkling of hope was quickly stomped out. For good reason, too. The world is not empathetic; it does not give a shit if you’re bleeding out in the gutter. The privileged people walk along ignorant of the rats rotting in the sewers. Andrew will live and die as a sewer rat, a fact that he has come to terms with a very long time ago. Mostly, Andrew is inclined to ignore the ignorant stomping above him or the stupid ones who try to scoop him out, as if he is something broken that can be fixed. Rarily, though, he will find another rat worth a conversation. 

Andrew does not have any expectations when he finally does click on the biography section, jaw clenched and leg bouncing up and down in aggravation. Close, apparently, utilizes photography and a grid system, where he breaks down the sections of a portrait into sections of a grid and then copies those sections onto the canvas. Allegedly, it is easier for Close to copy colored sections, rather than trying to reproduce facial features, which he cannot distinguish, onto the canvas. Photography and a grid. Normally Andrew would wave these tools as worthless to even try. But, there is something to be gained from Neil in trying, like it or not. Does Andrew wish to unravel more of the obnoxious mystery that is Neil or should he wipe his hands of the entire affair? Should a sewer rat bother to sniff out one of its own kind, if Andrew’s suspicions are correct? At the very least, Neil is the most interesting enigma Andrew has run across. A break from the usual mundane tedium that is existing until he doesn’t anymore. 

Andrew wants to smash his phone against the wall and then startles at the thought of wanting to do anything at all. 

It’s a lose-lose situation, perhaps by design. Damn Neil Josten.

The camera stares innocuously back at Andrew and he can almost see Neil’s smug expression as he picks it up. He feels out the dips and curves, the smooth plastic cap covering the lens, and thinks, not for the first time, how strange it is for Neil to trust Andrew with something so easily broken. Andrew could throw the camera against the wall, or, fuck, he could just drop it and something would probably break, and yet Neil didn’t seem concerned in the slightest to just leave the camera with him.

Something unfamiliar flares up in Andrew’s chest, but he smothers it like a shoe to a dying cigarette flame. Andrew does not waste time examining the feeling, instead he takes the camera up to the roof to take some test shots. The view has become familiar enough that Andrew doesn’t process what he is seeing anymore. Rather, he tends to focus on the cold slab of cement leaching his body heat, the wind rustling his sweatshirt. Andrew gingerly removes the lens cap and starts taking test shots from varying angles. The familiar space fills with the unfamiliar sound of the shutter clicking every time Andrew takes a picture, loud enough to almost block out the rooftop door opening and the soft foot falls that stop a couple of feet from Andrew. He doesn’t bother to turn around; there are only two other people who have ventured to the rooftop. 

“Andrew? It’s Renee,” Renee says just as Andrew turns to see her. “Sorry to disturb; I just hadn’t heard from you in a while.”

Andrew tilts his head. Right, he hasn’t bothered to charge his phone in a while. He shrugs and goes back to flipping through the most recent images he’s taken.

He hears rather than sees Renee move to stand next to Andrew, close but not invasively so. “Did you get a new camera?”

Andrew can hear the surprise in her voice.

“It’s not mine,” Andrew says instead, still more interested in finding a good reference photo to practice the grid with. He has quickly realized that finding the correct perspective will take some practice. Plus, Andrew has never had experience with a camera before, so it will probably take time to master.

“I see,” Renee says, but her voice sounds strange, an emotion Andrew cannot easily identify interlaced within the sound. “Did Bee lend it to you?”

“No.” It’s not like Renee to probe when Andrew conspicuously isn’t much in the mood to talk. When Andrew checks her expression a moment later, he sees she is barely suppressing a smile. 

“Then,” Renee lets the word hang a moment, as if she’s carefully contemplating how she wants to formulate her next question. The smile peeks through as she says, “Neil?”

Why Renee seems so pleased at the notion that Neil leant him a fucking camera is beyond Andrew’s realm of understanding. “What exactly are you looking for?”

Andrew would rather cut through the bullshit. Renee normally does as well, but for some reason she is acting evasive. 

“Nothing in particular.” This time, Renee’s smile melts to a more placating one. “I was just wondering how your portrait sessions with Neil have been going, recently.”

Andrew cannot suppress the glare that leaks out. “Shit. Nowhere near done. Neil is insufferable. Take your pick.”

Renee’s slight raise of an eyebrow indicates that she is surprised. Andrew isn’t sure what she was expecting, really. “Interesting.” 

Andrew is quickly running out of patience. “Don’t be cryptic. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Apologies, it isn’t my intention.” Renee’s smile twists, slightly. “I’m just surprised to hear that Neil is close enough to gift a camera to you.”

“What.” The comment draws Andrew’s full attention to the conversation. “It wasn’t a gift and we are not close.”

“Right.” Renee’s expression shifts so suddenly to one that Andrew can’t recognize. It’s not quite pity but not quite exasperation. Perhaps it is neither, but before Andrew can decipher it, her expression shifts just as suddenly back to serene. A mask to cover whatever she inadvertently let slip. “I didn’t mean to assume. I’m just surprised Neil lent you anything at all. From what Matt’s told me, Neil doesn’t have many personal items and the ones he does have, he is, well, possessive, I suppose.”

Frankly, Andrew isn’t surprised to hear it. Neil doesn’t seem friendly or the type that likes to share. But that has nothing to do with Andrew. “And?”

“And,” Renee repeats, slowly, pacing her words as if Andrew will somehow misunderstand or mishear her. “I’m surprised that you’ve kept in contact with him for this long. You usually cut out those you deem as dead weight. If Neil isn’t helping with the portrait, why keep him around?”

“Neil,” Andrew interjects, the all too familiar annoyance coloring his tone. “Is an enigma wrapped in a puzzle and glazed with an attitude problem. Once I’ve solved the puzzle, there will be no need to keep him around.”

“I see.” Renee sounds like she doesn’t quite believe it, but what the fuck does she know. 

A known annoyance is better to deal with than an unknown variable, a potential problem. Andrew will need a reference regardless in order to finish his gallery portrait. Better it be Neil, someone Andrew can mildly tolerate, versus a stranger who holds the potential to be both boring and annoying. Renee, of course, is out of the equation; best not to mix work with personal. Andrew does not have very many people he is interested in maintaining some kind of relationship with. Renee, though, has made that very short list. Knowing Andrew, if he had her pose for him, he would just end up fucking everything up. 

“There’s nothing to be concerned about with Neil. I’ll use him for my portrait and that will be it,” Andrew says. It’s not one hundred percent accurate as Andrew intends to keep Neil around long enough to unravel the puzzle before cutting him loose, but Renee doesn't necessarily need to hear the finer details. This is just a momentary blip in Andrew’s otherwise foreseeable future of solitude with minute interruption.

Renee doesn’t outwardly question Andrew’s statement and she doesn’t even visibly display doubt. But, somehow, it seems like she has more to say about it. 

Just when Andrew thinks Renee has dropped the topic, she says, “I think it would help Neil to open up to someone. Matt has tried to speak candidly with him, but I don’t think he’s been very successful. I think…” Renee hesitates a moment, before continuing, “I think Neil is more like us than he realizes.”

Of course Renee has noticed; like recognizes like, after all. Renee survived through an abusive mother and foster care and lived to tell the tale. Not only that, but she is continually working to cast aside the toxic lessons life has taught her to conform to her adoptive mother’s ideals. The darkness Renee experienced is what connects her to Andrew in the first place, of course she would be interested in recruiting another charity case. Renee enjoys putting her energy into lost causes, a prime example being the time she has put into Andrew. Renee is someone who has collected herself and is attempting to climb out of the gutter; Andrew, however, has given up on trying. 

“He seems scared to approach me. Or perhaps, he doesn’t know what to do with his impression of me, so he’s yet to properly speak with me. I don’t think you’re obligated to do anything, but, it is something to keep in mind.”

Renee is about as subtle as a house fire. She has expressed desire for Andrew to form more connections in the past, but she ultimately will not push him, even if she thinks it is for the best. It is one of the reasons Andrew tolerates Renee despite their often conflicting opinions; she respects boundaries. 

Andrew initially doesn’t intend to answer, and maybe Renee wasn’t expecting him to, but he finds himself saying, “I will think about it.”

Apparently that is all Renee wished to hear and she flashes a genuine smile his way before navigating the conversation to safer grounds.

Andrew has the distinct feeling that he is getting into something outside of his pay grade, but resolutely shakes the thought away.

Perhaps nothing will come of it, in the end.

***

The texture of the pink Kimono adorned with sakura flowers is the first thing that draws Andrew’s attention when studying _[Moonflower](http://nonstop2006.seesaa.net/upload/detail/image/E69C88E88FAF-0af97.jpg.html) _by Yasutomo Oka. Oka spends a month on his hyper realistic oil portrait paintings, crafting careful attention to detail on the textured clothing, the hair, the wrinkles in the hands. Oka has said he pays particular attention to the subject’s eyes, as he feels they are a defining characteristic. Andrew has no fucking clue what the criteria is for a defining facial characteristic or how to even identify one, but he can admire the effort expended into the portrait’s hyperrealism. 

Similar to Wiley, Oka also blends modern subjects against non-traditional backgrounds. _Moonflower_ has a flowered almost wallpaper-esque backdrop whereas some of his other portraits are contrasted against whimsical themes of fantasy forests. Even Oka’s black and white drawings carry his same attention to detail in hyperrealism. Andrew adds his observations to his ever growing list of portrait examples to file away and examine for later. He begrudgingly is willing to experiment with his techniques if it means successfully finishing this stupid fucking portrait assignment. But before he can even attempt his own portrait, he must practice painting from his photo references. 

When Neil shows up to the studio, Andrew is flipping through some of the reference photos he’s taken. He’d tried the night prior to grid out his picture of the rooftop view and apply Close’s technique to a simple black and white drawing. He’s had marginal success, but then again, the subject matter is one he could probably recreate with his eyes closed. Andrew isn’t entirely sure it can be called a success. He needs to practice more, simple as that. 

Neil readjust the straps of his backpack and says, “I see you’ve been using the camera. Have you tried painting from it yet?”

Andrew interrupts his scrolling to shoot Neil a glare in lieu of answering. 

Neil half chuckles, so quiet Andrew could have missed it had he not been paying attention. “I’ll take that as a yes. Can I see?”

Andrew jerks his head in the general direction of his work. With a sigh, he places the camera to the side. He’ll have to venture out to find new subject matter to practice on, maybe different scenery before he attempts to practice on an actual portrait. When he looks over, he sees Neil reverently looking over Andrew’s rough sketches from last night, one finger brushing against the margins of the page careful not to smudge the work. Like with everything, Neil acts as if he is an apparition, a light touch, careful not to leave evidence that he’s even been there. He does it so naturally, almost subconsciously, and, maybe, Andrew realizes, Neil isn’t really aware that he is hunching in on himself again. A kid scared to toe out of line, lest he get beat back into place. 

When Neil asked, before, about Andrew’s time in foster care, Andrew knew he wanted to ask: _were any of them any good?_ Andrew could have shown him the littering of cigarette burns like constellations on his wrists or his upper thighs, or maybe even the scar on his right shoulder, one from when he ‘fell’ down the stairs. But then, there are some wounds that didn’t leave a physical scar, ones that Andrew will hear whisper to him late at night, low and unrelentingly until his fingers shake, his knees buckle. Andrew looks at Neil and thinks if he asked about the burn marks under his eye, the obvious knife wounds on his face, that Neil would have some perfectly tailored story about how he inflicted the wounds to himself. Neil will lie in self preservation, even when he knows that Andrew will see through his shitty excuses. Andrew can see past the bullshit facade Neil puts up, a facade that Neil may not even be aware that he has constructed around himself. 

Neil hums, almost to himself, as he tucks Andrew’s art neatly back into his portfolio. “You probably need more reference photos of different subjects, right? I’m sure you’ve practically memorized the view from the rooftop by now.”

Andrew blinks back at Neil in surprise. 

“Do you have a location in mind?” Neil pulls car keys from his pocket. “I can drive you there, if you want?”

Andrew looks Neil up and down. “You drive?”

“Yes,” Neil responds matter of fact. “Well? If you’d prefer to take a photo reference of the stool and draw that, by all means.”

Andrew’s mouth quirks in response. It isn’t the worst idea, though Andrew is a little wary to get in a closed space with Neil. But Andrew recognizes the gesture as the olive branch that it is. Neil probably doesn’t go around offering to chauffeur random strangers around, and, somehow, it seems as though Neil is invested in the success of Andrew’s final portrait. Andrew can see the numbers in the equation, but refuses to acknowledge the summation. No one cares about what Andrew’s doing, so why should Neil?

Instead of answering verbally, Andrew nods and picks up the camera. 

Neil’s car is nothing special, a beat up Toyota Camry that looks about five years past its expiration date. When Andrew slides into the passenger seat, he is surprised the damn car is even able to start up, let alone pull away from the studio and out onto the road. 

“Where to?” Neil asks, shoulders tensing up. 

Sometimes, Andrew and Renee take her car and go for a long drive just for the illusion of escape, be it to escape the stress of school or lingering bad memories. Whenever Renee lets Andrew drive, he doesn’t ever have a destination in mind, rather he prefers to get lost in the motions of the drive, the click of the turn signal, the rumble of the tires against the road, the acceleration of the engine. There is, however, a car rest stop not too far from their university crested on top of a hill, overlooking a neighboring town. Sometimes, Andrew will pull over there for a smoke. The view isn’t bad, either. 

Andrew tells Neil of this stop, but his curt nod does not indicate if he’s ever been there before. 

Neil’s tense behind the wheel, anxiety etched in the lines of his shoulders, his back. He doesn’t seem to struggle with actually driving his car, skillfully navigating high speeds, turns. Yet Neil’s body language screams discomfort, as if he’s bracing for impact rather than enjoying the ride. As if he’s running away and afraid he’ll be caught. 

Hatred in its purest form scorches up Andrew’s throat and he thinks, not for the first time: when will Neil stop being the prey? It’s as if his personality were primarily molded from flight or fight survival instincts, lessons beaten into him by a heavy hand. Andrew hates so viscerally, but can’t articulate, or even understand, why he _cares_. Who the fuck cares about Neil fucking Josten?

For his part, Neil just continues to drive in silence, solely concentrating on the task at hand. Andrew is to get photography references to practice and Neil is the vehicle through which to accomplish this task. It’s so simple and mindless that it infuriates Andrew all the more. 

He’s still fuming when they pull up to the rest stop, the sun well beyond set now. Neither of them speak when they exit the car and take post against the railing overlooking the winking lights in the town just below. The lighting is horrendous, but Andrew snaps a few pictures anyway, the sounds of the shutter clicking breaking the silence between the two. 

He’s just scrolling through a couple of the trash pictures, when he hears Neil gently scuff his shoe against the pavement. 

“Have you ever… been happy to see someone die?” Neil’s voice drops off by the end of the sentence, melting into an almost whisper as if he’s already trying to take the words back. 

The admission takes Andrew aback; it’s as if Neil’s placing his head in the guillotine and hoping it won’t snap down on him. Maybe he’s overwhelmed by the illusion of privacy the darkness blanketing the two of them affords; it’s so easy to pretend they are the only two people in the world leaning against the railing. So easy to fall temptation to spill your guts into the black void just to get it off your fucking chest. But then, showing weakness is unlike the caricature of Neil that Andrew has managed to craft. It’s as if Neil’s caught in the tendrils of dawn and dusk, where reality bleeds to fantasy like running water through your fingertips, and has let his tongue slip.

Maybe it’s about time Neil let someone in. Equivalent exchange.

“Yes.” Andrew answers honestly and tries to capture Neil’s attention. Neil is stubbornly avoiding eye contact, so Andrew gives a little more. “I caused it, too.”

That brings Neil back to reality and his eyes meet Andrew’s in his shock. But, Andrew notes, it doesn’t appear to be from disbelief. There’s something almost... hopeful in Neil’s expression, but he is too stunned to speak.

“Does that frighten you, Neil?” A truth for a truth and Neil is overdue for his, now.

“No,” Neil is quick to say, but he puts more thought into his next words. “My father he’s- well, he wasn’t really…” Neil exhales shakily, his head moving slightly from the force of it. 

Neil collects himself to say, “My father was a piece of shit to both my mother and I. In ways that I don’t really think I’ll ever fully come to terms with. But when he died, it was the best day of my life.” Neil pauses again, takes another shaky breath, and whispers, “I would have killed him, if I’d had the chance.”

“My foster mother’s son died in a car crash when he was driving me home from school,” Andrew says before he can think twice about it. A truth for a truth and Andrew doesn’t go back on his word. “I pulled on the wheel.”

When Andrew meets Neil’s eyes again, he isn’t quite sure what to expect. Fear, maybe. Disgust. What he doesn’t expect is to see understanding echoed back to him. All this time Andrew thought he was unravelling Neil’s secrets, but, it seems, Nei was unravelling his too.

“My father he-” Neil cuts himself off, biting his lip. “You think my face is bad, but you haven’t seen what he did, what he was capable of. He-” 

Andrew watches as more of Neil’s facade crumbles to dust, but this time, Neil doesn’t try to glue together the pieces. He lets it fall away in an act of honesty Neil has probably never shown before. If Andrew were to introspect, he’d suspect he, too, is showing levels of honesty he has never before. Not even with Renee. But he doesn’t linger too much on the thought. 

With a sigh, Andrew says, hand outstretched and hovering just over Neil’s, “Yes or no?”

“...yes?” Neil mumbles, still cast adrift in a sea of his own misery. 

Andrew grips Neil’s wrist and pulls it to feel the scars from cigarette burns on his shoulder. Neil’s eyes widen as his fingers spread over the landscape of Andrew’s trauma, a small slice of hell he experienced growing up. 

Neil doesn’t linger in his touch and pulls away once he’s gotten the general idea. Andrew’s shoulder burns from Neil’s touch, but it’s not the same as--

Andrew violently stops the thought in its tracks. There is no time to dwell on the past, not when Neil is one bad hitching breath away from a panic attack. 

“I have an idea of what monsters are capable of,” Andrew says, after some contemplation. And, frankly, to break the silence punctured only by Neil’s hitching breaths. 

Neil absorbs the statement as passively as a college student might a routine lecture, but Andrew knows he is cataloguing the discovery for later, one he can turn around and pull apart until he’s fully dissected its meaning. 

“Yes or no?” Neil asks, his hand immitatting Andrew’s just moments before. Neil’s eyes so fucking determined, his other hand fidgeting nervously at the hem of his shirt, as if he’s about to pull it up. 

“Yes,” Andrews says and he doesn’t think too much into how they’re building a thread of trust, one founded on shared pain, understanding. 

Neil gingerly pulls Andrew’s hand to underneath the hem of his own shirt. Andrew feels...an expansive framework of scarring. Knife wounds, cigarette burns, shapeless skin, and even a hot iron burn mark up on his shoulder. Neil’s entire body is a framework shouting _here are all the ways you tried to kill me, but failed_. Bile rises in Andrew’s throat in the wake of his all consuming anger. Death is not punishment enough for the scum that keep getting away with shit like this. 

As Andrew pulls away, he says, “Death wasn’t enough punishment.” Silence. And then. “I’d crash that car and die in the wreckage every time if it meant I took him out too.”

His nerves are rubbed raw from exposure, cutting a little too close to the oozing wounds that will probably never heal. But Neil doesn’t need to be told twice; he takes what Andrew is willing to give him and doesn’t expect anything more. 

“Thank you,” Neil says, as the dust has settled and they go back to companionable silence watching the lights slowly flicker out as the occupants of the houses get ready for bed. “Thank you for sharing. And for letting me help with your final portrait.”

Andrew pulls out a cigarette, lights up, and passes it to Neil. “Shut up.”

For the first time since Andrew’s met Neil, he hears a genuine laugh from Neil. “Alright.”

They burn through another two cigarettes, watching as most of the remaining lights wink out.

For the first time, possibly ever, Andrew doesn’t feel suffocated sharing space in the pitch black.

Eventually, once the cold becomes unbearable, they shuffle back to Neil’s car and head back to campus.

***

Watercolor is a language just as foreign as portraiture is to Andrew, yet even he can admire the rippled water extending from where the subject dips her hand in the clear water. The subject’s face is turned away, but her silhouette crouched over the water is crisp and natural in a way that Andrew didn’t even know watercolor could be. Marcos Beccari captioned the image [ _domingo_ ](https://www.instagram.com/p/B7Nstg3pvyx/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) on his instagram page, where he often shares his other watercolor works. More often than not, his feed consists of portraits both face on and, surprisingly enough, with their backs turned to camera. The way he is able to capture the human form in all positions and angles, particularly via a temperamental medium, is impressive in how natural he makes it look. 

Andrew will admit he never practices the human form, even if the faces are away from the camera simply because of his own overwhelming bias and distaste for portraits. Perhaps it is unfair to cut off an entire demographic of art subjects, seeing as how so many successful capture the human form without detailing facial features, but Andrew also hadn’t found a subject he was willing to work hard enough to commit to canvas. Scenery more often interested him and remained uncomplicated. That is, of course, until Neil. So Andrew must move forward.

Andrew’s general avoidance of practicing Close’s technique on portraits had to come to an end at some point. The semester has crawled its way to a close, and Andrew is quickly running out of time. He can’t avoid practicing painting an actual portrait any longer. 

Neil, as always, is punctual to the point that it is almost annoying. Most times, Neil will keep to the schedule even when Andrew has not needed his likeness to paint. Usually, Neil will work on homework or will quietly watch Andrew work. Occasionally, he will strike up a conversation, sometimes with himself if Andrew isn’t in the mood to talk. Andrew doesn’t mind his presence, even when he is being utterly obnoxious and intentionally pushing Andrew’s buttons to get a reaction out of him. 

Andrew is already covered in paint from his latest attempt of transcribing the photo reference he took from his venture with Neil. It has come out a success, the scene almost perfectly replicated from picture to painting. 

“Neil,” Andrew says once Neil has settled into his corner of the studio, no doubt ready to do whatever boring math assignment his stuck up professor has assigned to him. “It’s time.”

“Oh?” Neil perks up from his wilted position over his math book. “Time to take a reference photo of me?”

Neil knows by now that Andrew doesn’t like to repeat himself, so he merely opts to stay silent. 

Neil takes up post on the stool directly opposite of him, an obnoxious grin already lighting up his face. “How should I pose?”

Andrew glares at him.

Neil just chuckles in response. “My choice, I see.”

Andrew takes a couple of shots to test the lighting and exposure, but when he turns to look at Neil, Neil has the strangest expression on his face. Almost...fond. No one has ever looked at Andrew that way before. Something in Andrew’s chest tightens, an emotion Andrew isn’t sure how to classify, so he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a photo of Neil mid-yawn without warning. Neil doesn’t seem to care one way or another, and merely adjusts his position slightly so that he is facing the camera. Once Andrew is satisfied, he goes to print off the best one. He creates a rough grid guideline over the top of the photo, pours his paint, and goes to his empty canvas. 

Once there, he looks up to see that Neil hasn’t moved and instead is watching Andrew. When Andrew lifts an eyebrow in Neil’s direction, Neil holds his hands up innocently.

“Is it ok if I watch you work for a while?” Neil asks as he puts his hands back down to his side. Why Neil would want to sit there and stare at Andrew rather than do his homework or even just watch the actual painting is beyond Andrew. Either way, so long as Neil didn’t get in his way, he didn’t care where Neil sat. 

“Do what you want,” Andrew says. Neil practically glows, his smile bright enough that Andrew has to look away lest he go blind. 

Andrew works in silence for a while, almost mindlessly transferring color into this first grid, careful to match up the shading just right without fully recognizing the image he is working on. It’s easy to get lost in the action of painting, the scratch of a wet brush against a white canvas, the smell of oil paints clogging up the room, sticking to his clothes only to linger even after it’s been washed. Andrew could live and die in his painting and no one would ever fucking know; they’d just see another failed portrait. 

It’s supposed to be a rough painting rather than a full detailed work, and yet, Andrew gets lost in the motions all the same. It’s so easy to let the world fall away into background noises, so easy to tuck away Andrew’s own consciousness into a corner of non-existence while he lets his hands move with the brush to dip in the paint and transfer to the canvas over and over again until it spits out an image out of Andrew’s control. 

Andrew’s so focused on his painting that he almost misses the soft beep of a phone ringing; Neil’s phone. Inadvertently, Andrew glances at Neil, maybe to check his expression, maybe to confirm that he heard correctly. All evidence of Neil’s smile, his relaxed posture for moments prior, have melted away to rigid lines. But Neil doesn’t answer his phone, or even check to see who’s calling. 

“Spam?” Andrew asks, just to break the tension up. 

Neil jerks slightly, as if surprised Andrew spoke at all, or maybe he forgot Andrew is even in the room at all. “...No. It’s just...nothing.”

“Don’t you get tired of lying to yourself?” Andrew is only half paying attention to what he’s painting, now.

“No,” Neil’s fidgeting with his hoodie strings. “It’s complicated.”

“Probably true,” Andrew aggressively dabs into the auburn swatch, swirling into the paint as if to prove a point. “But inaction won’t uncomplicate it.”

Neil sighs, the sound heavy enough to fill the space for once. “I can’t just leave her. She needs me.”

“She?” Andrew is not about to play a guessing game, not when the stakes are high. Andrew presumes this must have to do with whomever beat his face black a blue a few weeks back. Neil had never disclosed the full details of what happened, just insisted that he was fine.

“My-” Neil laughs, suddenly, a broken sound that is self-deprecating at best. “My mother is… not well. I can’t just abandon her.”

Mother. The word choice alone reveals perhaps more than Neil meant to, even his tone of voice, the way it dipped and the way his mouth curved on the end of the word, a sneer and prayer wrapped in one. It’s a formal title for an empty position, an emptiness that Andrew knows well. It’s always the ones meant to protect you that end up twisting the knife in the deepest. Andrew should have known. 

“Does she hurt you, Neil?” Andrew has put down the paint brush and given up the smokescreen of working on his art, but he doesn’t directly face Neil. Sometimes the illusion of talking to an empty room helps the words come out. There are some things Andrew still can’t say out loud. 

Neil hesitates for long enough that Andrew knows he’s right. 

“All my life, she’s tried to protect me. I was young and stupid, so of course I made mistakes and paid the price, but-- but,” Neil swallows, voice scratchy. He sounds lost in his words, as if they are flowing out without his permission. “That was my fault. I hated her for it anyway, but I know I wouldn’t have survived without her. She did what she thought was best.”

“Hurting a child is never ‘what’s best’ and fuck anyone who makes you think otherwise.” Andrew can’t tamp the anger spilling out, leaking into the room, enough to drown them both. “Like I said before, sometimes the best way to solve your problem is to kill it.”

“No,” This time, Neil’s laugh sounds wet, but his eyes are dry. “I can’t. She’s saved my life too many times. I’m sorry- I should probably go and pick up her meds. That’s why she was calling probably.”

Just like that, Neil tries to make a mad dash for exit. A rabbit with his foot caught in the trap and he’d rather hobble away bleeding than seek help. 

“Neil.” Andrew’s voice is enough to stop Neil in his tracks. As if in a trance, he looks to Andrew, his expression still swirling with loss and despair. For the first time in his life, Andrew feels like he wants to wipe away the expression of pain on someone else’s face. “Yes or no?”

Andrew points to his wrist and then to Neil’s hand. Cautiously, ever so subtly, Neil nods his consent.

Andrew closes the distance between the two of them and guides Neil’s hands to underneath his arm bands to the battlefield of self inflicted wounds. Andrew watches as Neil takes in the faded knife marks maring the undersides of his arms, he feels Neil’s fingers gently spread, feeling out but applying no pressure. 

When it becomes unbearable, Andrew gently guides Neil’s hand away. Neil goes without complaint, an awestruck look coloring his face. “Trying to hold on almost killed me.”

A truth for a truth.

Neil has nothing to say to that, but, then again, maybe there is nothing to say. This time when Neil tries to leave, Andrew lets him go.

***

[ _Thembi 02_ ](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/451697037606912216/)stares back at the viewer, gaze strong and chin tucked just slightly up, an acrylic painting by Jimmy Law that combines modern portraiture with grunge texture effects. Another example of just how versatile modern portraiture can be with Law going for a stylistic effect rather than a hyper realistic one. The effects, however, are done to frame the face and add an interesting pixelated effect to an otherwise standard portrait. Most of the effects match the skin tone of the subject with the surprise of green peppered in. It draws the viewer’s eyes and introduces Andrew to yet another interesting technique to try out. 

He thinks about adding an effect to his portrait of Neil, a crack along his face, or pixelation along his ear, but then dismisses the thought. He’s already put time into practicing hyper realism and it is too late to back out now. 

Speaking of Neil, he has been distant as of late since the last time he bolted from the studio. Normally, Andrew wouldn’t think much of it; they didn’t see each other every day, but the abrupt departure combined with his absence was unnerving. Andrew shouldn’t care, and yet, they’ve come too far to not. 

Andrew is just printing out a new reference photo when his phone buzzes on the table. When the buzzing persists, Andrew realizes it’s a phone call. There is only one person who ever calls him, but Renee knows he prefers to text. When he reaches his phone, he is only mildly surprised to see Neil’s name flash across the screen before he accepts the call.

Neil doesn’t say anything at first, only static crackles into the speaker, more deafening than even silence would be

“Neil,” Andrew says, voice monotone despite the rush of anxiety. 

There’s an intake of breath, and then a minor shuffling, as if Neil’s checking to see that he dialed out. It’s silent for so long, Andrew almost pulls his phone away to make sure the call is still connected. 

“I didn’t know who else to call,” And that’s Neil, voice scratched and far away, as if in a daze. 

“Neil,” Andrew says, again, softer but still even. 

“Please…I can’t- I need...”

“Text me where you are,” Andrew says, automatic. “Stay put. I’ll come to you.”

Neil mumbles his agreement before hanging up. The second the line ends, Andrew has dialed Renee’s number. Adrenaline races through his veins, the force of it so sudden, Andrew feels almost light headed. 

Renee answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“I need to borrow your car,” Andrew has already grabbed his wallet and headed out the door towards Renee’s dorm. It’s raining, has been all day, and distantly Andrew recognizes that he doesn’t have an umbrella, but he doesn’t care enough to go back to get one.

“Of course.” Renee, as always, has the tact to know when not to ask questions. Maybe she can hear the urgency in Andrew’s voice. “I’ll meet you outside in five.”

He doesn’t say anything to Renee when he sees her, simply extends a hand for her to drop the keys in. Renee just smiles, small and encouraging. He’ll owe her an explanation later, but for now Neil’s words are tumbling around in his head, making a mess of his thoughts. He has never been good at expressing or categorizing his feelings and he definitely doesn’t have the mental fortitude to parse through said feelings in correlation to Neil. Instead, he focuses his energy toward racing to the destination as quickly as possible.

Renee’s car hums to life when he puts the keys in the engine, the dash lighting up, and soon he is pulling out onto the road with speed surely over the limit. The rain heavily pelts the windshield, the wipers desperately dancing to keep up, which makes the speed even more of a risk, but Andrew feels as though Neil will sink into the drain along with the rain at any moment.

As Andrew nears the address Neil sent him, he thinks he must have gotten it wrong. The road he’s on is leading out of town, one that is about to merge into the oncoming highway. Why would Neil be all the way out here? But he double checks and, no, it’s right, and maybe Andrew should’ve expected Neil to be in the middle of fucking nowhere. Neil is just incapable of logical decision making. Andrew’s grip on the steering wheel tightens.

He slows the closer he gets to the destination, which, from what he can tell, does not appear to be an actual destination at all. The GPS says he is within five hundred feet, but there are no notable buildings or public areas to be found. Just when he thinks he’s missed the stop, he sees Neil hunched over on the side of the road where the grass meets the shoulder, absolutely soaking wet. Andrew throws on the emergency and pulls over. He’s out of the car before he can consciously think to move and is standing in front of Neil. Neil, though, is resolutely staring at the ground seemingly unaware of his surroundings. 

“Neil,” Andrew says, loud enough to not be drowned out by the rain. 

Neil blinks and looks up. He parts his lips in surprise, as if he didn’t actually think anyone would come for him. “Andrew.”

Andrew extends a hand. “Yes or no?”

Neil blinks. “...yes.”

Andrew helps haul Neil off the ground and safely navigate him into the car, Neil wincing and limping the entire way. Andrew hadn’t thought to bring a towel, so Renee’s car seats soak in the water, Neil shivering upon contact. The familiar flicker of anger sparks in Andrew’s throat, but he chews it away. This is not the time or the place for that.

“Thank you, Andrew,” Neil says on an exhale, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Sorry, I didn’t know who else to call.”

Andrew looks at Neil in the rearview mirror. “Don’t apologize.”

Another shift, and then, Neil says, “...aren’t you going to ask what happened? Or why was I out in the middle of the street?”

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Would you tell me the truth if I asked?”

When Andrew looks to Neil again, he sees Neil is half smiling, half grimacing.

“That’s fair,” Neil murmurs, mostly to himself. But then, a little louder, he says, “...she was having a bad episode. Normally I can ride it out, but, I don’t know, something in me snapped. I just...bolted. I ran as far as I could and somehow ended up there. I didn’t even realize I called you until you said my name.”

Andrew’s grip could crush the steering wheel; anger a full fledged flame threatening to scorch his throat. But he can’t articulate those feelings to Neil. He wants to kill the human being who claims to be Neil’s mother, but he knows Neil still has a lingering attachment to her, one that he needs to sever on his own terms. If Andrew acts on his own, Neil will never get over it. 

The rest of the ride back to Andrew’s dorm is silent, punctured only by the rain pelting the windshield and the soft rustle of Neil shifting in the backseat. Once they arrive at Andrew’s dorm, Andrew helps Neil out of the car and up the stairs. Neil stands awkwardly in the corner of the room while Andrew rummages for clean clothes for Neil to wear and a first aid kit, just in case. Once he’s found something suitable, he turns to face Neil.

“Yes or no?” Andrew points to Neil’s wet clothes and Andrew’s dry ones. 

Neil closes his eyes and nods. 

Something cold walks up his spine, a whisper of a memory he has hidden away from sight. Andrew needs to hear verbal consent, for this. 

“Neil,” Andrew says, firm but not harsh. “Yes or no to my helping take your clothes off?”

Neil doesn't open his eyes, but he does say, “Yes. I trust you, Andrew. I just don’t want to… see.” 

Andrew absorbs that, tucks it away for later, as is his habit with any scrap of information he gathers from Neil. Andrew gingerly lifts Neil’s shirt, gently untangling his arms from the sleeves. His chest and stomach are an angry red, as if he’s a fucking punching bag, and there is a shallow cut near his belly button going down to his hip. Andrew seethes for about five more seconds before collecting his composure; Neil is a wild animal Andrew has no intention of scaring away. 

“Yes or no to cleaning your wounds?” Andrew asks, hands hovering over the antiseptic spray and bandages in the first aid kit. Neil shouldn’t need stitches, so Andrew is confident he can dress his wounds. Best not to take Neil to an urgent care where some stranger will see Neil’s scars on display. 

“Yes.” Neil’s breath hitches at the end of the word and he shivers again. 

Andrew gently cleans the water from Neil’s torso, gently around the sore spots and wound, applies antiseptic, and dresses the wound. He’s careful to keep his touch light and touch only where necessary. Neil sways a little on his feet, but is otherwise relaxed at the touch. Once he’s done, Andrew guides Neil pants off and clinically evaluates the damage there. His legs are in a similar state of blooming bruises as his torso, perhaps slightly more so, but there are no bleeding external wounds. He helps Neil into dry pants and deposits Neil’s wet clothes into the hamper.

“Thank you, Andrew,” Neil’s eyes open and focus on Andrew. “I’ll get out of your hair now and crash somewhere else. Sorry I had to drag you away from your studio.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Andrew says, instead. “Just stay here.”

For the second time in one evening Neil is rendered speechless. Andrew would be proud of the fact that he got Neil to shut up if it were any other scenario, but at least he can take away that Neil can run out of witty retorts. 

“I don’t think I should-” Neil starts to protest, weakly in Andrew’s opinion. He can’t even finish the train of thought.

“Do you even have anyone else to stay with?” Andrew asks bluntly. Neil doesn’t strike Andrew as the type of person to hang around in large social circles. 

“I would crash in my car or a park or something.” Neil retorts. And then adds, almost to himself, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Andrew says and then repeats himself anyway, just to get it through Neil’s stubborn head. “Stay with me until you sort your shit. You’re not going back to that house except with me to get whatever personal belongings you have.”

Before he can protest, Andrew tosses a copy of his apartment key to Neil. Neil snaps his mouth shut, a lost, faraway look glazing his eyes as he runs his fingers up and down Andrew’s key. As if he dare not hope for the promise of escape or the possibility of cutting ties with toxicity. Instead of answering, Neil nods.

For the first time, Neil can see the possibility of a future without blood stains or tragedy, one with the possibility of moving on.

He intends to clutch at the chance until his fingers bleed.

***

A blue paint streak cuts across the smattering of red and yellow that makes up the face of Frans Smith’s [ _Mrs Louw_ ](http://franssmit.co.za/gallery/mrs-louw-90-cm-x-95-cm/). It looks almost like Smith accidentally spilt paint over an otherwise proficient technicolored portrait, and yet it is by design that the face is obscured, the identity marred. Most of Smith’s work focuses on recreating 13th to 17th century art with the twist of distorting the original image, a mixture of traditional and modern art on one canvas. 

Of all the portraitures Andrew has studied, he is the most drawn to Smith’s style. It looks almost as if he’s run his fingers through the paint to fuck up the faces, a practice Andrew can get behind. That and, well, he doesn't have to focus on the finer details of capturing a subject’s face, but rather just the general feeling the subject exudes via color theory. It’s tempting to mimic the technique, and just give up on trying to paint a realistic portrait of Neil. But then, somewhere tucked away in a corner Andrew refuses to examine, he thinks it’d be a pity to have come this far and have nothing to show for it, no portrait that accurately captures not just the image of Neil, but the essence. 

As if summoned, Neil appears in the doorway, fingers clutching the doorframe. He has been staying with Andrew for a couple weeks, taking up as little space as humanly possible. Even now, he is crowded against the doorframe, as if he’s trying to melt into it. Andrew has to hold himself back from commenting on it. Habits bred from fear are not so easily unlearned; Andrew can understand that, as frustrating as it may be. This will be another thing Neil will slowly have to unlearn.

“I’m ready to get my stuff,” Neil announces, his voice clear and unshaking on the topic for the first time since that fateful day Neil called him. It seems Neil has finally resolved himself to face the beast and walk away, definitely for now, possibly for good. Andrew hopes, for Neil’s own sake, that it is for good. Though, Neil seems reluctant to make that final cut. 

“I will borrow Renee’s car, then,” Andrew says, already pulling out his phone. “Be ready in five.”

Neil nods, but doesn’t unstick himself from his spot near the doorframe warily watching Andrew’s near silent phone exchange with Renee. Fortunately, Renee had not minded the water damage on her backseat and agreed to let Andrew borrow her car once again. Not for the first time, Andrew wonders why Renee continues to put up with him when he has very little to give in return. 

Neil silently follows Neil to Renee’s dorm and doesn’t even make a sound when they see her. Andrew nods his thanks to Renee as she passes over the keys to Andrew. She looks curiously at Neil, but doesn’t otherwise comment. Even now, Renee remains consistent in her tact and doesn’t push for explanations. Perhaps she can see how tightly wound Neil is, as if bracing for the impact and the fall. 

Once they do settle into the car, Andrew just turns the key in the engine, the car vibrating in anticipation, Neil shifts in the passenger’s seat. He’s fully turned to Andrew, hands clutching onto the seatbelt. 

“Andrew,” Neil says and Andrew immediately directs his full attention. Hopefully, he isn’t about to suggest something stupid. Though, if he were, it would explain his uncharacteristic silence up until this point. “When we get there, please let me go in alone.”

And, of course. Andrew should have known that Neil would come up with something so stupid. Sure, send Neil into the lion's den alone makes perfect sense. 

Perhaps Neil anticipates Andrew’s protest, as he quickly interjects, “She doesn’t do well with strangers. I’m afraid it will trigger her paranoia if you come in and, like, intimidate her. Trust me.”

“Don’t be stupid, Neil.” Is all Andrew can manage to say. 

Neil laughs half-heartedly. “It’s all I know, remember? And anyway, believe me, I’ve managed her paranoia for as long as I can remember. You can stay in the car out front and you’ll hear if anything goes wrong, which it shouldn’t. Maybe we’ll catch her in a good mood.”

Judging by Neil’s tone towards the end, it doesn’t seem like he thinks a good mood is likely. Some battles, however, are best fought alone, despite how illogical it may sound. Andrew can begrudgingly admit that. 

“If I see her do anything out of line, I’m going to step in,” Andrew grumbles.

Neil laughs again, this time with more heart into it. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Just like that, Neil exits the car and walks down the innocuous stone path leading to the inconspicuous wooden house. It is nothing to brag about, neither the neighborhood nor the architecture of the actual building. It’s so bland and boring that its blandness almost sticks out. The house itself, however, carries the depths of Neil’s despair, a silent bystander in the many injustices that would take place every time she would hit or otherwise threaten Neil. How many times had Neil held in cries of pain while under her roof? How many neighbors heard those cries and chalked it up to the wind or their imaginations? 

Monsters live amongst humans, in plain sight, courageous enough to not even wear a disguise. Both Andrew and Neil bear the marks of evidence to that truth. And yet, so many of these monsters are never sniffed out, never made to pay for their crimes. It makes Andrew sick to his stomach in anger. Not at his own position, but rather at how Neil continues to suffer from injustice years in the making. Perhaps worst of all, Neil thinks most of those injustices are a result of personal failing. 

If Andrew strains, he can almost hear the echoes of conversation between Neil and his mother. Instead, he respects Neil’s privacy and will not eavesdrop on the no doubt manipulation his mother spins to justify their last encounter. It seems as though Neil’s determination wins out, as he emerges from the house unscathes moments later, a duffle bag slung over his shoulders. His mother stands in the doorway of the house, gesturing wildly. She looks...unhinged, her face red in anger, but she dares not move from the house. Andrew glares at her as Neil opens the car door and slips in. 

“Let’s go.” Neil’s expression is shuttered. 

Andrew starts up the car and pulls away from the house as fast as he can. Once it is a reasonable distance away, he asks, “Where to?”

Neil hums in thought. “Your studio. I want to watch you paint.”

Andrew shouldn’t be surprised to hear that. Neil’s love of art is thinly veiled at best, even from when they first met, Andrew had noticed right away. He has spent more time in Andrew’s studio these past few weeks than Andrew has, somehow. 

They pull up to the building and head straight for the studio. Andrew is just setting up his canvas, mixing his paints that have already stained his hands, when he hears a crash and fall from Neil’s general direction. When Andrew turns to investigate, he sees that Neil has somehow managed to knock over Andrew’s spare oil paint and brush set, staining both his shirt and the floor in splattered color.

Andrew intends to collect the paint supplies off the floor before they become completely unsalvageable, when he stops in his tracks. Maybe it’s the daylight streaking into the room and hitting Neil’s face in just the right way, highlighting his jaw, his eyes, that stutters Andrew’s steps. Or maybe it’s the raw emotion bleeding from Neil’s face, his encounter with his mother, his childhood home, too much to hide in on himself. Regardless, for the first time, Andrew has the burning desire to capture Neil’s expression exactly how it is: this is what he wants for his final portrait

Andrew is struck to silence as he watches Neil pull off his shirt with the full intention of replacing it with a clean one he gathered from his home. Somehow, the way his scars are proudly displayed only adds to the appeal of his portrait, now building from a what if desire in the pit of Andrew’s stomach. 

“Neil,” Andrew says, loudly enough that it jars Neil to stillness before he is able to put his shirt back on. 

Neil catches Andrew’s gaze, and something like understanding crosses his face. Neil always had been able to read Andrew as well as Andrew could read Neil.

“Andrew,” Neil echos back, his voice soft, a promise. 

“Can I take your picture?” Andrew reaches for his camera, clutching it like a lifeline.

“Yes,” Neil exhales. And then, softer, “I trust you, Andrew.”

Andrew shakily pulls his camera up and takes a couple of reference photos, but he isn’t really paying attention to them. His eyes are trained on Neil alone. Once he’s got enough, he places the camera down. 

“Yes or no?” Andrew doesn’t intend to move, not a fucking muscle, until Neil consents. The paint brush and assorted paints are still half broken and splattered across the floor, momentarily forgotten. The moment suspends, as if entranced, and Andrew can’t say a thing. Neil, stupid, fucking Neil, bites his lip and tilts his head, blue eyes sparkling. 

“Yes,” Neil finally says. “Andrew.”

  


Andrew’s hands are still paint splattered, but Neil’s face, right now, is exactly what Andrew wants to capture, to express. He wants to transcribe this moment, a broken fucking disaster splashed against the dull white canvas and have it come out recognizably _Neil_ instead of its usual muddled mess. 

Andrew touches Neil’s chin, first; fingers shaping out his sharp jawline, down his neck, a streak of purple paint evidence of his path. Neil doesn’t flinch away, but he does close his eyes. As if Andrew is someone to be trusted. Someone gentle enough to cradle a life in his palms, instead of ruining it. 

Andrew almost chokes Neil in spite at the thought. Instead, impossibly, his fingers relax, gentle as a butterfly’s wings. And fuck Neil for making Andrew think _that_.

Andrew slides his hands up to cup Neil’s cheeks, neatly avoiding Neil’s lips. His right fingers brushing the distinctive burn marks on his cheek, skin rubbery and raised unnaturally, more evidence of an unjust crime committed, yet never prosecuted. 

“A dashboard lighter. I wasn’t being- well.” Neil sighs out the answer to Andrew’s unspoken question. Who hurt you and lived?

“It wasn’t my fault.” Automatic. Neil says it like he’s been coached to, not as if he actually believes it. Maybe he doesn’t. “I pissed him off, I guess. Said if he burned my eye out, I’d be more careful. He didn’t do that, obviously. But,” Neil trails off, but doesn’t finish the thought.

Andrew taps his middle finger against the burn. What is there to say? Neil is someone who should have died, but didn’t. He is the nobody that got away. 

Just like Andrew.

There’s blue and white smudged up to Neil’s eyes, now, but Andrew probes out, thumbs meeting on the bridge of Neil’s nose, memorizing the dip, the angle, the smooth ridges. His fingertips leave lilac smudges on Neil’s eyelids up to the eyebrows, long eyelashes casting tiny shadows. 

Andrew smudges black like shoe polish up Neil’s forehead and into his auburn hair. Still, Neil doesn’t move, doesn’t even say anything, the bastard.

Andrew hates with a passion he hasn’t felt before. He’s come to realize that is common, when dealing with Neil.

Just as suddenly as the urge to touch Neil arose, it tampered out. Neil was just having a nervous breakdown, he can’t do this now. Fuck. Andrew drops his hands, as if burned, and takes several steps back. Neil opens his eyes and has the audacity to look confused at the loss of touch. 

“We aren’t doing this now,” Andrew says. “Not after this morning.”

“...why not?” Neil seems confused, maybe a bit dazed. “I trust you.”

All the more reason to stop. “Then trust that this isn’t the right time.”

Neil’s expression clears, a smile creeping its way back onto his face. “That means there will be a right time then, huh.”

Andrew sighs. Stupid fucking Neil. “Shut up.”

Neil laughs, the first carefree sound he’s made all day. “I’m glad I met you, Andrew. Thank you.”

It’s said so genuinely, so emotionally, that Andrew has to look away. 

He’s already planning how to grid out the dips and curves of Neil’s face, to create the most accurate recreation of Neil’s likeness. A portrait that will display all the ways Neil has almost died, but survived. Andrew rolls up his sleeves and gets to work, Neil a silent support overlooking his progress, and pointing out the inconsistencies. 

His final portrait has finally found a direction. 

But, more than that, Andrew has found Neil.

***

_Josten_ stares back at the viewer, expression open and gaze soft, juxtaposed with the litany of scars across his chest, the burn marks on his cheek. Andrew never thought he’d stare down a portrait as his main gallery work, and yet, here he is, wedged in the middle of the crowd staring a giant fucking portrait in the face. Fuck if Andrew ever tries his hand at another portrait again, though. He doesn’t think anything would ever top this one.

“Andrew,” a voice interrupts Andrew’s train of thought. Andrew can already feel the tension bleed from his shoulders at the sound. Only two people on this campus would call out to him.

“It’s Neil.”

End. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Warnings include:  
> -Implied/referenced rape/non-con-- this falls in line with canon, but is never explicitly detailed.  
> -violence-- descriptions of Neil's face beaten/wound description
> 
> Please let me know if I missed anything in the tags!
> 
> Check out sm-pcnlr Tumblr post of art: [here](https://sm-pcnlr.tumblr.com/post/645426152774762497/guess-who-participated-in-the-aftgreverse-this). 
> 
> Thank you!


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